


The Stick-Aft's Foil

by ghost_writer88



Series: The Solar Spark Chronicles [2]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship/Love, M/M, Multi, Pre-Earth Transformers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:05:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 68,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghost_writer88/pseuds/ghost_writer88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz is an up and coming Spec Ops saboteur with a straight shot into High Command, but the success of his latest mission is threatened by an unforseen obstacle... The SIC of the Autobot Army, Prowl, whose rule-adhering ways are making it harder and harder for our beloved Jazz to complete his task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Landing in Iacon

Chapter 1:

The shuttle descended towards Iacon slowly, circling the once proud towers and revealing the massive armaments that guarded the gargantuan underground Autobot base. A black and white mech sat fairly glued to the window panel in amazement. Blackshot chuckled softly in his seat across the deck. The head of spec ops and current TIC of the Autobots was amused by the young mech. He was acting every bit the new recruit he was purported to be, only Blackshot knew otherwise. This innocent seeming mech, designation Jazz, was one of the most talented recruits ever to be courted by Blackshot’s department. The mech could fade into any background, becoming invisible, without the energy consuming addition of a phase disruptor. Jazz truly was youthful and exuberant, but, when he went into mission-mode, a darker construct emerged. Blackshot had chosen to mentor the younger mech after witnessing one of his more flamboyant missions, a highly impressive piece of work that would sadly never see the light of orn to receive the adulation it should have earned.

Now, technically, when a new spec ops recruit was brought in, it was performed in secret and most mechs never saw them unless they managed to become one of the few soldiers deemed worthy enough to serve on a mission with them. However, Blackshot had a need for his newest asset to be highly visible.

A slight jolt from the shuttle told the TIC that they had landed and the crowd of new soldiers on the deck preparing to disembark encouraged him to find his charge. Blackshot had just reached Jazz’s side when he happened to look out the window. What he saw made him swear audibly, “Frag, it’s the stick-aft.”

Jazz’s eyebrow rose in clear mirth at his commander’s words, but wisely allowed his mentor to elaborate without comment.

“You, lad are about to meet one of the stiffest, coldest sparks ever to be spat out of the Pit.” Blackshot growled. “Our illustrious SIC has apparently decided that today’s influx of newsparks should be inducted into the ranks with a ‘proper’ post-disembarking inspection. If you have any contraband items on you, I suggest you place them in your spec ops subspace because all other subspaces are subject to this farce.”

The young agent gave a nod to his superior and began to empty his belongings into a highly secure subspace within a subspace. After he finished, Jazz slipped into the crowd and followed them out onto the runway. A tall black and white of Praxian origins awaited them along with a massive red mech whose favored weapon appeared to be the set of cannons he sported on his forearms. The red one quickly ordered them to line up in parade rest beside the shuttle. The twenty or so freshlings did as ordered, but not without a bit of nervous muttering. The Praxian snapped his doorwings back in a severe motion as he strode down the line examining the troops. He addressed them as he neared the end of their group, “I am Autobot Prowl, second-in-command of the Autobots, and chief tactical officer. I am responsible for your discipline, your schedules, and your duty assignments. If you show yourselves to be mature additions to our ranks then you will be rewarded accordingly, however, if you choose to exemplify attitudes of disorder or otherwise attempt to encourage troublesome behavior, I will see to it that you are paid in kind. Please remember that you are part of a unit now and can no longer afford to think solely for yourselves.”

As the officer droned on about the importance of proper behavior whilst on base, Jazz could not help but find his attention waning. He did think that the mech had a nice vocalizer, a deep baritone that drifted soothingly through his auditory processor, but Jazz ultimately found himself agreeing with Blackshot, Prowl was a stick-aft. Apparently, several of the recruits thought so too, for a soft call of “hardaft” wafted down from the other end of the line. It would have gone unheard, but Jazz’s audials were hypersensitive as was befitting a mech of his calling. Jazz found it mildly surprising when Prowl turned to face the grunt that had spoken with unerring accuracy, since he knew that Praxians did not naturally come with enhanced hearing. He was drawn from that curious line of thought though, by the SIC’s response. “Soldier, what is your designation?”

The recruit looked back brashly answering, “Gravwell… sir.”

The soldier’s ill-advised decision to tack on the ‘sir’ as if an afterthought sealed his fate, the TIC drew himself up straighter in an even more severely perfect posture. “Private Gravwell, for the crime of slandering a superior officer in effort to undermine said officer’s authority, you are hereby sentenced to one orn in the brig, followed by six cycles of cleaning duty under the supervision of corporal Huffer. Ironhide, please escort our brig’s inaugural guest to their cell.”

The recruits were stunned into silence after that, and Jazz with them. He was most shocked by the fact that the officer had shown no sign of any emotions during the entire speech and had not even raised his voice during the young soldier’s sentencing. Jazz groaned; it was bad enough that he had to pretend to be a typical grunt to the populus at large on the base by request of his commander, but he would also have to suffer under the harsh regime of a TIC who clearly would not know a joke from a death threat.

It was going to be a long vorn.


	2. The Team

Chapter 2:

The arduous inspection continued after the unfortunate Gravwell was dragged off by Ironhide. Prowl had finally completed the visual inspection and was moving on to the perusal of the contents of everyone's subspaces. Cry after cry of indignation was heard as Prowl confiscated every object of even slightly contrabandish nature. Jazz found himself very glad that Blackshot had seen fit to warn him. His special subspace was filled with items the SIC would have been happy to relieve him of. When said mech reached Jazz and asked him to empty his subspace, the Polyhexian clumsily opened all four regulation spaces onto Prowl's pedes with a feigned "Oops." It was part of his mission to appear normal and a normal grunt would be terrified in the presence of such an authoritarian commanding officer.

The other recruits snickered at his blunder and waited with baited intakes for the impending reprimand. They were disappointed however, when Prowl calmly accepted Jazz's nervousness as genuine. The SIC glanced over the spilled belongings, removed a few illegal items that Jazz had purposely left exposed, and moved on.

At the end of the assessment the soldiers received a long-winded speech on why contraband was not allowed and what the consequences would be if such items were found again. At long last they were released to go to their quarters, but not without a stern reminder that a mandatory orientation would occur just before that orn's dark-cycle in the northside rec room.

When Jazz reached his room he was surprised to find he had been assigned not one, but two roommates. The first, a small yellow and black minibot, gave his designation as 'Bumblebee' and seemed to be quite friendly. The other, a slender white and blue mech, turned his olfactory sensor up at Jazz and disappeared in a haze of light pixels. The door to the room opened and closed as the mech gave the illusion of walking out. Jazz, while stunned, was not fooled. His extra sensor array and audials told him that the mech had remained seated on the berth. Not one to spoil another's fun though, Jazz turned to Bumblebee and inquired, "He's got ah phase disrupta'?"

Bumblebee just grinned and nodded, "Yup, that's Mirage, he used to be a noble from the Towers. That little talent used to allow him to avoid unpleasant conversation with his peers. I think his creators had intended him to use it to spy on their enemies and collect information to further the house's political standing."

While Bumblebee explained Jazz had slowly inched towards the empty bunk under the pretense of stowing his gear. When he was standing next to it he reached and snagged something mid-air. His movement had been almost too swift to be processed visually and the air under his servo shimmered to reveal Mirage, who was pouting at having been detected. He turned to the Polyhexian, further irritated, when Jazz would not release his scruffbar. "Would you be so kind as to remove your filthy servo from my clean armor." His cultured voice dripped with disdain at the idea of having been touched by a 'lower' bot.

"Can't have ya disappearin' on meh again. Would prevent us from getting' ta know one anotha'." Jazz countered, but complied with a smirk. The noble quickly checked his armor for scuffs and dings that might have been left by the other. The minibot sank onto his own berth with a gasp. "Thank Primus, you passed."

Jazz quirked an optic ridge and waited for an explanation. It was the noble who supplied the answer, "Our beloved commander did not want you to enter the mission field without backup and has assigned us to be your team. However, while we have read your file, we have not been afforded an opportunity to see you work. Therefore, we determined to test you to ascertain whether we would be capable of working as a cohesive team."

"So, mah test was ta find ya when ya was 'nvisible?"

"Yes," Bumblebee interjected, "Mirage's ability makes him virtually undetectable to the enemy, but the same can be implied of our own side as well. Because of this many simply write him off as a wild card instead of trying to utilize his gift, and the few who did see his potential didn't know how to use it correctly. Mirage has been shot at least six times by our own soldiers because one of our unit commanders told him to secure something on the other side and then forgot he was there. After we nearly lost him in the last fiasco, Blackshot gave the order that Mirage was not to work with any agent that could not detect him whilst invisible."

" 'N ah take it you can sense 'im too?"

Bumblebee nodded pointing to his small sensor horns. "Minibots come online equipped with advanced sensor arrays to prevent us from being crushed or damaged by larger mechs. A few minor tweaks to those systems make us some of the most formidable spec ops agents available."

"Ah see. Well, since ya two gen'lmechs are more aware o' the situation than ah, would ya mind givin' meh a briefin' ah what ya know."

Both of them straightened into 'mission-mode' as Bumblebee began their first official team meeting. "First, according to the records, I am your only roommate. As far as anyone else knows, Mirage is still back at ops. Since we cannot go near that sector without raising suspicion and the comms are likely to be hacked, we will give our report to Mirage to servo-deliver. Second, this room has been upgraded secretly by ops and is now a secure room so we can converse freely."

Jazz nodded in approval and Mirage took over to finish the brief. "As far as can be determined, the leak we have been assigned to source and plug is not an officer. Nor is it a member of tactical or security, all of them have checked out clean. Whoever is leaking the information on our troop movements is well informed but not part of the groups who would have that data. How this is being accomplished is to be our primary focus. We know how the information is getting out though. One of the communications mechs, designation Rapidburst, has been discovered sending coded databursts out under the guise of warming up our comm systems before battle. He is unaware that we have discovered him and we hope to backtrack to his informant from him."

"Then ah guess its tahm ta make some friends in comms. 'Bee, where are ya stationed officially?"

"In the Requisitions Department. I tried for Comms when I took my aptitudes but the powers that be decided I would be better suited elsewhere."

"Ah'll be tryin' for tha same when Ah take mine tamorrah. Primus-willin' Ah'll pass. It'll save us tha trouble of comin' up with excuses for bein' there all tha time."

The two accepted the plan as a good preliminary starting point and with it the meeting was concluded. The specs ops bots disappeared leaving the cheerful minibot and snooty noble in their place.

"Now that we're all up to date, why don't you let us help you unpack and then the three of us can mosey down to the northrec for your orientation Jazz." segued Bumblebee.

"Won't it raise ah bit o' suspicion for 'Raj ta be seen wit us?"

"The key word there being 'see'." Bumblebee said while snickering at the noble's indignant response to his new knick-name. Jazz grinned in agreement and the three got to work.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jazz collapsed on his berth completely worn out by the Orientation-from-the-Pit. It had started out normal enough; get a download of the base map, listen to a short introduction of the important officers, get a download of the shift schedule, and be given a short reminder of the fact that a military base has rules and regulations. Short… yeah… right. Reminder… pfft… right. Prowl had been in charge of that section and he had droned on for three and a half cycles before the Prime had gently stopped him. Jazz remembered feeling a slightly vindictive amount of amused satisfaction at the tiny rush of emotion that had crossed Prowl's face as he informed the matrix-bearer that he was only a third through the most pertinent rules and was denied continuance anyway. Optimus Prime had generously compromised with his SIC by requiring each recruit to download a complete copy of the regulations en masse before they were permitted to leave.

Jazz decided that something had to give. If this had been a temporary assignment he would simply have ignored the rigid tactician. His patience was endless in most situations, but since his assignment to Iacon was permanent, Jazz felt it was his duty to improve the lives of his fellow soldiers. Primarily by enlightening their stiff SIC upon the world of fun and emotion. With that comforting thought in processor Jazz powered down into recharge.

-TBC-


	3. Raising the Bar

The next orn the recruits went through a series of evaluations to determine where their talents and skills could best serve the base. First, came the marksmanship test. While Jazz was not the most proficient with weapons, preferring hand-to-hand combat like a true assassin, he was adequate and enjoyed the practice. It also afforded him the opportunity to acquaint himself with Ironhide, who turned out to be the base's Weapons Specialist. The red mech was certifiably obsessed with guns, the bigger the better. Although Jazz did not share this passion, their similar laid back natures gave them enough common ground to form a tentative friendship.

After marksmanship came melee combat. This test was overseen by a red, orange, and black seeker designated, Spitfire. Jazz was surprised knowing first-hand that nearly all the seekers had joined the Decepticons and the few who had not were all neutral. Seekers were also no known for their close combat skills, thanks to their thinner flight armor. However, Spitfire seemed to have no problems, even when disadvantageously pitted against a pair of twin frontliners. Most of the seeker's counterattacks and defenses focused on redirecting the motions of his opponents in a style similar to Diffusion. His fighting style was strange though, incorporating flowing, twisting, climbing moves than made him look more like a cybereel than a mech. Jazz knew that as soon as his undercover job was done he would be back to spar properly with the odd flier.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just after the last recruit finished they were released for mid-orn energon. Jazz picked up his ration and surveyed the room for a table where he could observe without appearing antisocial. He selected one against the far wall, but as he arrived, so did another mech. They stood there awkwardly for a klik before Jazz extended his servo in welcome. "There is always room for two mah mech."

The red and yellow mech smiled and clasped his servo in a friendly shake. They sat and introduced themselves. "Ah'm Jazz." "Ah am Blaster."

Ya from Polyhex?" Jazz questioned, recognizing the accent as similar to his own.

"Yep, West District."

"The cassette-masters district?! Ya one o' them?" Jazz was delighted at such a rare meeting.

"If Ah am?" Blaster answered warily.

"Tha would be fantastic mech. Ah've never gotten tha chance ta meet one. Seen 'em tho, always surrounded by their cute little mechs."

Blaster grinned and pressed a small button on his torso releasing two quadrapedal cassettes. "Like these?"

Jazz's visor brightened in glee as he stared at the two small symbiotes. "That's awesome ma mech, what're their designations?"

This one is Steeljaw," Blaster pointed to the orange and purple felinoid, "and that one is Ramhorn." He pointed to the reddish miniature cyber-rhino.

"Hey there minimechs, how ya doin'?"

The two cassettes regarded Jazz warily and gave a neutral shrug.

"It's ok guys, he's a Polyhexian, he knows."

Jazz looked up, confused by the cassette-master's cryptic statement. "Ah know what?"

"That they have sparks and aren't drones."

Jazz's visor darkened. "Mechs have been treatin' 'em like drones?" His voice was soft and held a steel-like quality that promised ill-intent for those who had mistreated the little ones. Blaster dropped his gaze to the floor. "Most don' know any better. The District was a very close knit community and very few outsiders were ever accepted among us. Most Poly's didn't even know the truth and we lived in the same city."

"Then how'd ya know ya could trust meh?" Jazz was still glowering at the idea that the symbiotes might not be receiving the same rights as the full-sized mechs.

"Cuz you called them 'little mechs.' Everyone not in the know calls 'em 'the drones'."

The black and white stiffened completely at the statement and swiftly came to a decision within himself. "The little mechs will always be treated right and welcomed amongst mah crew. We'll neva' treat 'em as less 'n what they are if ya decide ta stick around. 'N if we eva' catch any mechs botherin' 'em, we'll take care of it."

"Thank you," Blaster was flabbergasted by the generous offer of protection, "but why? We're strangers. Why offer that to mechs ya hardly know?"

"In tha words o' our dear Prime, 'Freedom is the right of all sentient beings' and in mah own words, 'N Primus help all those who would try ta take that freedom while mah spark still pulses'." Realizing that his dark mood was starting to worry the cassette-master he smiled and added light-sparkedly, " 'Sides, it feels right 'n Ah learned vorns ago ta listen ta mah spark."

Blaster smiled back in gratitude, offering his own friendship in return. More than ready to change the subject, the cassette-master asked a new, but typical, question. "So mah main machine, what section ya hopin' to get into?"

"Comms, you?"

"The same."

"Mah mech, Ah think this could be tha beginnin's of a great friendship."

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Finally the evaluation of comm. skills commenced. The trial was an extensive battery of tests focusing on range, pitch, sensitivity, and encryption that was not for the faint of spark. Spec ops training made encryption easy and Jazz's own audios took care of the other three. He would have relaxed, assured of his victory, if not for a certain red and yellow cassette-master who showed an aptitude parallel to his own. This narrowed the saboteur's chances by a significant margin and he had recently learned that there was only one space left in the Communication Division.

Sabotage would be considered the standard operating procedure, but his sense of honor demanded that the contest with his new friend be completed fairly. He sent a quick message to Blackshot through Mirage containing the relevant info, sans his honor's demands, for advise. The reply was both welcome and dissparkening. Since the trials had already been completed and the data transmitted instantly to the relevant officers there would be no chance to alter it. The final placement of the analyzed mechs would be the responsibility of Prowl, and he was impossible to sway once he had determined the statistical probability of the success of an assignment. It also did not help that the SIC and TIC were not on friendly terms with one another and Blackshot would be unable to influence the decision without revealing why it was necessary. A revelation he was unwilling to make with the identity of the spy unknown. Jazz was secretly glad that his friend would have a fair chance, but the inflexibility of the rigid Praxian could jeopardize the saboteur's mission.

After the orn's schedule was completed and the recruits released for predark-cycle energon, Jazz decided it was time for some recon. His decision to 'help' the SIC to loosen up was still firm in his mind, but to circumvent a problem one must first know the problem… extensively.

Prowl was ready to throw something. At that moment he would have liked nothing better than to hunt down the mech who had created the War Codices and force them to suffer through the datapad mountains piled all over the tactician's desk thanks to the rule that all new soldier placements would be overseen by Tactical. As head of the department he could have delegated the task to any of his subordinates, but his own perfectionism would simply demand that he review them anyway to ensure that every mech had been placed for maximum effectiveness. Resigning himself to the monotony of the task, and probable likelihood of a rechargeless night, he began on the first stack.

Many of the five hundred mechs would be rated 'normal' soldiers, 'cannon fodder' as Ironhide so eloquently put it, interspersed with a few promising individuals who would be jealously snatched up and assigned to specific departments in a never-ending cycle to improve their advantage against the Decepticons. Eventually he came to the file for a mech designated, Blaster. The mech rated extremely high in the comms section and seemed to be the perfect choice to replace Staticstop, who had perished in an attack a few decacycles earlier. Satisfied to have filled that void, Prowl picked up the next datapad, just to find that Blaster was not the only one to show an impressive score in comms.

Well, this would be interesting, the Praxian thought. Placing the two mechs' stats side-by-side, he compared them. The two were perfectly matched and complementary. Jazz was slightly superior in the aspect of encryption, but Blaster had a somewhat larger range. Prowl sincerely wished that there were two positions in comms, for these mechs seemed to have been built for it.

However, as only one spot was available a choice would have to be made. For the first time in nearly ten vorn Prowl turned on his battle computer to determine which young recruit would be the best option.


	4. The Hickup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few things to tell ya'll about this chapter.
> 
> First, I am introducing the form of timekeeping that will be used in all of my G1 fics for denoting the time of orn:
> 
> Dark Cycle: (D.C.)
> 
> Begins at 9pm and ends at 7am
> 
> 9pm – 1st joor 2am – 6th joor
> 
> 10pm – 2nd joor 3am – 7th joor
> 
> 11pm – 3rd joor 4am – 8th joor
> 
> 12am – 4th joor 5am – 9th joor
> 
> 1am – 5th joor 6am – 10th joor
> 
> Light Cycle: (L.C.)
> 
> Begins at 7am and ends at 9pm
> 
> 7am – 1st joor 2pm – 8th joor
> 
> 8am – 2nd joor 3pm – 9th joor
> 
> 9am – 3rd joor 4pm – 10th joor
> 
> 10am – 4th joor 5pm – 11th joor
> 
> 11am – 5th joor 6pm – 12th joor
> 
> 12pm – 6th joor 7pm – 13th joor
> 
> 1pm – 7th joor 8pm – 14th joor
> 
> Second, in my fics Femmes are simply another frame type, like seekers, and since Cybertronians do not have genders, all femmes will be referred to by the pronoun he/him when the fic is written pre-Earth. When my fics reach the post-Earth setting the humans denote the femmes as female, a fact the femmes quickly correct, but they keep the she/her pronoun since they like the idea of further demarcating their frametype from the normal mech frame.

An excited comm from Bumblebee had Jazz racing across the base to reach the Northern Commissary.

The Placement Lists had been posted.

The black and white skidded into the room, narrowly avoiding slamming into the wall of bots jostling to discover their posts. Jazz slowly managed his way through the throng to the announcement board where he found the yellow mini frowning slightly at the lists. "Sorry Jazz, but you didn't make the cut. They assigned you to Medical as a Technician, but at least they added a modifier that puts you on the short list should a position in Communications come available."

The post surprised the saboteur, sure he had basic medical skills, but no better than the rest of the formerly repressed majority, who either learned to repair themselves or perished. Not to mention that all spec-ops agents were required to learn first aid as a matter of course and most leveled up to minor field repair. He did not think his skills were anything special, but maybe the presiding surgeon had seen something promising.

Well, at least it would keep him off the front lines and, given that most bots trusted the medics, it might yield some interesting intel.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once back in their room, and joined by their invisible partner, they discussed what their next step would be.

"Ah think we can still work wit' this. We jus' gotta play it careful."

Two pairs of attentive optics showed equal expressions of skepticism and Bumblebee stated a valid objection, "How? We have been trying to do this from outside the department for decacycles now and nothing has come of it."

"Well, when ya'll investigated tha department there shoulda been at least a few mechs there wit' enough empty frames in their subspaces ta get at least one discharged ta clear mah way."

"No sir, there actually is not." Interjected the noble spy. "After our investigation was finished the Lord Prime wanted an update on the mission and Blackshot was forced to turn over our reports. Our commander would have held a few back, but thanks to the Matrix our leader could not lie when the Lord Prime asked if the reports were complete. Then, all the illicit activities were turned over to Prowl, who proceeded to discipline all the offenders. Thus leaving us with a squeaky clean High Command and no leeway to insert any agents. Blackshot was not pleased."

Jazz servo-helmed, "Ya kno, Ah'm really startin' ta hate that mech. Could he not see tha benefit o' havin' readily disposable mechs whose activities, while against the rules, were not doin' any harm?!"

The other two gave him sympathizing looks, but could offer no words of solace.

"Well, no use cryin' ova' spilt ena'gon. We'll jus' hafta work wit' what we got. Ya'll give meh a couple a joors ta mull this ova' in mah processors an' we'll discuss new options this evenin'. Try an' think of any loopholes we mighta missed will ya." The exasperated saboteur implored. Mirage nodded his acknowledgement, activated his disruptor, and left with a soft, "Until this evening gentlemechs."

Bumblebee left soon after to begin his shift, leaving the aggravated Polyhexian to his thoughts. Jazz considered the mission from all angles and came to the depressing conclusion that the only recourse left would be using his friendship with Blaster. A tenuous avenue of intel at best and depended largely on whether the cassette-master would mind being 'disturbed' during work joors. Well, slim as it may be it still satisfied the mission requirements and Jazz turned his processor to the recon data he had collected over the past three orn while waiting for the lists.

According to what he had witnessed, the 'beloved' SIC led a very boring functioning with very little variation to his ornly routine. The Praxian served long joors and hardly ever seemed to recharge or refuel. Prowl's day started on the eighth joor of the dark-cycle before the light of Binaura, the binary stars, had even begun to ease the darkness. He would rise, grab a quick shower in his private washrack (6.8 kliks every time), snatch a cube from the officers' lounge, and then sequester himself in his office until the second joor of the light-cycle when the SIC would attend the ornly officers' meeting. Afterwards he would spend a joor with his tactical unit receiving updates on the various projects to which they were assigned. Then it was back to his office for more paperwork and tactical assessments. He never left, not even to refuel, but usually either his diversionary officer or the young theoretician apprentice would take him a cube before they retired for the dark-cycle. Finally, at the 4th joor D.C. he would go back to his quarters for a bit of recharge and start the orn all over again.

Jazz wondered when the bot defragged, because four joor was barely enough time to recharge, much less even begin the six joor defragmentation cycle. The saboteur shook his helm at the foolishness of the Praxian, such poor maintenance could lead to errors in his tactical planning or worse, get him killed on the battle field. What was most puzzling though, was Prowl's lack of social interaction. It was medically proven that all Cybertronians needed at least one friend to keep them metally stable and needed to have some form of physical contact, platonic or otherwise, with said friend to remain emotionally centered. The lack of these would explain the SIC's need to adhere to the rules as a way of stabilizing his meta and his emotionlessness to compensate for his isolation. These tactics should not have worked on a long term basis, but Prowl was still operating at maximum efficiency for his model type.

This intriguing puzzle aside, it was painfully obvious to Jazz that the solution to the 'Stick-Aft' problem would be to procure a few situations in wherein Prowl would be able to make some friends. How to make these events occur and the candidates to use would require further investigation for the time being.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Unbeknown to the saboteur his musings and earlier ops meeting had not gone unobserved. Up in the secured vents a small felinoid shape could just be discerned as it crept away on silent pedes. It made its way through the ducts until it reached another berthroom. It removed the vent grating and dropped down onto the berth below next to his master. The red and yellow mech showed no surprise at his cassette's sudden appearance and merely opened his arms to allow the felinoid to arrange himself comfortable in the larger mech's lap.

After they were settled the cassette initiated a hardline connection to transmit the intel he had gathered. The cassette-master smiled as he viewed the ops bots' reactions to their setbacks.

"Looks like our rockin' spy-bots are rollin' with the punches and adjustin' their steps to the new dance. The Dark Queen will be pleased."

The felinoid purred his agreement, but felt it proper to comment, "You certainly didn't help them any."

"The Queen didn't want them to have a gel-cube walk. He felt that a challenge for our titanic trio was important to make 'em bring their A-game, and he's not done with 'em yet. Our stellar leader has one more glitch to throw in the mix."

"Why make it harder? The longer this takes the more intel slips out of our base." the felinoid replied, then started when he caught a fleeting thought in his master's meta. "He know who the spy is? Then, why hasn't he done anything about it?"

"Mah main machine, that is not for us to question. It is the Dark Queen's prerogative to decide when information is leaked, not our."

The two curled up together, finishing their data transfer and began the tedious chore of monitoring the other three cassettes remotely as they too monitored the ops bots.


	5. An Interlude

Bumblebee was tired. All of the setbacks and dead ends of their mission were wearing on him and left him with very little patience for his cover. He was currently out in the old Iacon marketplace having a meeting with one of their neutral suppliers. A supplier that had just attempted to triple his usual rate.

Most neutrals preferred to cater to both factions so that no matter who won they could claim to have supported them. However, as the Decepticon victories became more and more frequent, the neutrals' sypathies began to shift decidedly in the 'Cons favor. Of course, the Autobot's suppliers, greedy thieves that they were, insisted that their contracts would remain intact, but not without a price increase to cover the added risk of course. Frankly, Bumblebee found the whole façade repulsive, but he had a job to do to secure much needed supplies for his faction. This was why he now found himself out here in the open, waiting for his turn to negotiate with the slimy bottom-dweller.

Bee and his partner usually employed a "good enforcer, bad enforcer" style routine, a very basic negotiating tactic with a success rate of ninety percent, with recalcitrant sellers like the current specimen. Thanks to Bumblebee's sweet countenance and friendly personality he was almost always the 'good mech'. His preferred partner for these dealings was a mech designated Huffer, whose skill at complaining, vividly, about everything usually had their sources practically begging to be allowed to speak with Bumblebee and conclude their transactions.

His current partner for this shift, however, was Ramrod, an intimidator who used threats to soften the wayward. "Listen here you overpriced credit pincher! Our bosses have been lenient on you for being such a loyal business partner *ooh, going for the backwards flattery*, but these attempts to drain us will greatly displease them."

Heedless of the mire he would soon find himself bogged down in, the greedy mech struck a haughty pose and tried to return the intimidation. "Well, if you don't like my prices, which I will remind you are barely allowing me to break even *in a turborat's optic!*, then I can take my business elsewhere. However, if you refresh your memory cores you will realize that I am the only supplier left who deals in these ware and you will not be able to find another source, because there are. None. Left. I have been loyal *yeah, tell that to the 'Con frames we found with subspaces full of your merchandise, all conveniently stamped with your logo too*, and have come to do honest business with you at great personal cost to myself *oh I am sure*. Yet all I find are insults and degradation of my industry *ha! If we wanted to degrade your 'industry' we would have listed all the transactions you have recently made with the 'Cons*."

Rather than back down from the threat of cooperation dissolution, Ramrod gave a dark smirk and pulled his ace card. "Oh, go ahead, dissolve our contract, but at least let me warn of the consequences first. If I go back to headquarters and tell my supervisor that you have reneged on our contract, he will turn over our supply problem to Spec Ops. Spec Ops will track down your sources, offer them a more 'lucrative' and 'profitable' deal than you currently have with them, and then plant evidence that will mark you as a devout Autobot supporter, ensuring your immediate deactivation by the very next Decepticon you meet."

By this point the shady dealer was fairly quaking in horror at the idea of losing his income and potentially his life, which meant it was Bumblebee's turn to speak. "Come on Ram, surely we could work something out so it doesn't come to that?"

He put his servo on his partner's shoulder in a play of restraining the other's aggression. Moving swiftly into his new role, Ramrod "hmphed" and stormed off. Having 'placated' his partner's 'ire', Bee turned to the hustler. The poor mech's optics were shining with ill-disguised hope and it crossed Bee's processor that sometimes it was just too easy.

"Now, honorable sir, I do wish to apologize for my friend's abrasive attitude, but sadly his pronouncement is correct. I myself heard our boss talking about his frustrations over our suppliers and he thought it might just be easier if he had Spec Ops cut out the middlemen."

Bumblebee had to struggle to maintain his apologetic, solemn composure when all he wanted was to roll on the ground laughing at the hopeless, dejected look on the businessmech's faceplates, he also looked like he might lubricate himself any nanoklik now in terror. Bee gave his statement a moment to sink in before continuing his manipulation. "I really wish it didn't have to be that way. Businessmechs are a necessary part of a healthy economy and my superiors are really depreciating your value. Alas, I am but a negotiator and although I have tried on numerous occasions to improve their opinions of your esteemed workfellows importance, my bosses still refuse to see your significance."

The supplier began to commiserate with Bumblebee over the devaluing if the common working mech and soon the yellow minibot had established a firm camaraderie over similar 'plights' that they had both suffered. Now that the bait had been firmly taken it was time to close the trap.

"I truly do not desire to see a good business partner, like yourself, lost to the rigors of war. Is there nothing you can offer us that might appease our superiors?"

The supplier began to him-haw, but a pointed glare from the returning Ramrod settled the matter. "I am sure I can give you a suitable deal, you are, after all, my best customers."

A few kliks later Bumblebee was headed back to base. They managed to reduce the price increase from 300% to 15% and received a bonus of a free unit for every fifty purchased.

Mirage was irritated, it was beneath him to be angry, but that emotion was getting harder and harder to deny. Why was he irritated? That could easily be explained by the fact that he was currently pinned to the corridor wall a roughrider-class scout. The scout was not being aggressive, he was simply leaning against what he thought was the wall, and since Mirage refused to decloak, the big lunk would remain thinking that. The scout was currently chatting with a grey and blue-black seeker, and neither seemed ready to move on any time soon. This left the invisible noble to seethe as the lower class mech occasionally rubbed his inferior green armor against the noble's own in an attempt to get more comfortable.

Finally, after what felt like joors, but was really only a few kliks, the two mechs shifted to leave. Mirage was just about to slip away when four security mechs came up and seized him. Before he could protest or even flash his Autobot brand they had slapped him with an emobilizer that effectively paralyzed him right down to his vocalizer. As he was dragged away the green scout turned piercing blue optics on him and spoke in hard voice so unlike the gentle, jovial tones he had used before, "'Con spies should learn not to underestimate the Autobot scout corp."

Blackshot was not happy, Jazz on the other servo couldn't stop laughing, and between them on the S.O. lounge's couch sat a sulking indignant Mirage. The TIC's irritability was justified however, as he had just sprung one of his best operatives from the brig where he was being held under suspicion of being a Decepticon spy. It had been quite a shock when he received the news over a high-frequency ping that Mirage had been captured, by their own side. The point that was making Jazz chortle was the fact that he had been located by the green paint tranfers that the scout had rubbed onto the noble's armor. Blackshot, still unamused, was now waiting on an overdue explaination for the spy's predicament.

"I do not know." Was the blue and white's begrudging answer. "One moment I was standing there enjoying the orderliness of the base's workings and the next I was pinned by that green oaf. I have no idea how he detected me, much less managed to comm security without alerting me."

"Ah can answer that." Came the cheeky interruption from the black and white saboteur.

"Oh?" commented Blackshot, more than ready to hear some answers for the fiasco.

"Well, not the detectin' part, but tha comms mystery's easy. Tha scout was talking ta ah seeka. Seeka's always come in trines n' they c'n talk ova' their trinebonds. So, our scout probableh signaled tha seeka that he'd cornered a spy n' tha seeka told 'is trinemates who commed securiteh."

Blackshot nodded in acceptance of the probable explanation, but that still left how the spy had been detected.

"Sir, could we not just pull the scout in and ask him how he detected me?" proposed Mirage in effort to minimize his humiliation.

"No, I'm afraid not. The base is already rife with rumors that we had a mech spying on our own mechs. If we pull the scout in for questioning it will only confirm those rumors. The informer is already nervous, if we drive him to ground we may never find his contacts."

"What're ya orders then, sir." Jazz answered while the noble visible wilted.

"You need to give the informant some time to get comfortable again, so I suggest taking the time to make some contacts of your own within your current posting. Also, it would be wise to covertly investigate the scout at the same time. It is possible that he just got lucky, but I prefer not to leave these things to chance. If he has a sigma gift that allowed him to find Mirage, well, then we may be able to use that for our own benefit."

"Yessir." Came the twin replies, one chipper and one resigned.

Blackshot finally cracked a smile, "Chinplate up Mirage, every mech has a bad day, it's not the end of the world."

The noble straightened, mortified that he allowed himself to be so lax in his deportment. Blackshot dismissed the two agents and Mirage cloaked them for the trek back to Jazz's quarters.

The walk was conducted silently, but Mirage knew that as soon as they arrived he would be receiving a round of ridicule, as all lower class mechs were wont to do when a noble showed themselves to be less perfect than they pretended. However, the saboteur merely clapped a friendly servo to the spy's shoulder and kindly went off on a tangential topic. Mirage allowed it gladly, his relief and surprise making him uncharacteristically conversational, and, to his further surprise, he found that Jazz was knowledgeable in enough fields to keep the noble' interest.

They chatted amicably for the better part of a joor before Jazz had to go for his first shift in the Medical Wing.


	6. New Plans

When Jazz arrived at the Primary Medbay the first thing he noticed was how clean it was. The second thing he noticed was the soldiers walking about who were clearly uninjured and each was loaded down with cleaning supplies. The third thing was the suspicious looking dents each cleaner sported on their helms.

Filing his curiosity away for later the Polyhexian lost no time in finding a medic so he could check in and receive his shift duties. The medic he found introduced himself as Pipes and offered to give Jazz a tour of the facilities and get him acquainted with the general staff. It was heavily implied that learning their faces and designations was considered vital in keeping the Medical Wing running smoothly, knowledge that the saboteur could see coming in handy during battle triage. All in all there were twenty-three surgeons, not counting the CMO who was out for the orn, seventeen battlefield medics, forty-eight surgeon's aids, two hundred and twelve nurses, and nineteen specialists. Pipes was a battlefield medic, but was undergoing training to become a Joints Specialist.

Jazz was nearly reeling with the inundation of designations in such a short time span and set a background thread in his processor to assign the designations to faceplates so he could clear his thoughts. Fortunately, learning all three hundred and twenty designations would not be expected immediately as the ornly staff was only comprised of two surgeons, their assistants, a battlefield medic or specialist and twenty nurses. The black and white was also surprised when he was told that there were only six other technicians selected for training besides himself.

His curiosity over his selection into finally got the better of him and he posed the query to his guide. Pipes looked puzzled for a moment before replying, "I was not the overseer of that test so I personally would not know, Fixit was the one who volunteered for that job that orn and only he would know his own reasoning. He is on duty today if you would like to ask him?"

The saboteur nodded eagerly, better to settle the matter so his processor could lay that thread to rest. The medic directed him towards an open office and greeted the occupant as they stepped through the door. "Hey Fixit, got a younglin' with a question for you."

Fixit looked up from his datawork to flash a soft creator-like smile at the new technician. "Greetings, please be seated and tell me what's on your processor."

Jazz complied and posed his question again. "Ah was jus' wonderin' why Ah was chos'n ta be a technician cuz as far as Ah c'n see Ah ain't got any special skills tha would 'ave made meh stand out from the rest o' tha candidates."

"On the contrary my dear mechling," replied Fixit with the confidence of a mech with an experienced optic for talent. "You have several gifts that your peers do not. When we first introduced the test subjects you showed an innate sense for where the problems were located even if you were unsure of what exactly was wrong *Ah could hear their parts malfunctionin'; they jus' didn' sound right ta mah audials. Jazz thought*. When we moved onto field repair you showed a delicate but firm touch with steady servos *Bomb trainin'll do tha ta a mech* a necessary requirement for any medical staff. Your servos are also small with slender digits *huh, turns out lockpicker's servos are multifunctional* and you showed no signs of squeamishness when in the presence of frame fluids, again both prerequisites for any medical field."

Jazz took a moment to fully digest the answer and when he was satisfied with it he spoke. "Well, that's a lil' shockin' but Ah think Ah'm okay wit' it."

Fixit gave him the creator-like smile again and dismissed him with wishes for a pleasant shift. After returning the well-wishes and exiting the office Pipes led him to the main bay where a slender femme was waiting.

"Jazz, this is Sliptwist. Sliptwist, this is Jazz. The two of you are shift partners and this will be a permanent arrangement until you graduate from technician status. If during the course of your partnership you find yourselves incompatible you are permitted to ask for reassignment from the orn's head surgeon."

The two technicians exchanged congenial nods with Sliptwist giving a small shy smile to answer the massive grin plastered across Jazz's faceplates, let it never be said that he met a mech he didn't like. The battle medic motioned them to a pair of corner consoles and pulled up identical files on each one.

"The two of you will be studying the basic frame anatomy of a grounder this orn. However, should an injured mech come in you are to show them to a frame-appropriate berth, pull up their file on the berth scanner, and notify the first available on-call medic or surgeon. You are required to shadow the attending physician, and I would suggest taking noted because there will be a decacycle test to assess what you are learning."

Jazz and Sliptwist immediately "Yessired". The battle medic then left them and after exchanging a few introductory pleasantries the settled down to work.

Jazz studied his work until Sliptwist was firmly engrossed in *his own then surreptitiously inserted a datacable into the console. He was almost appalled by the speed in which he was able to bypass the firewalls on the medical files, but that swiftly turned to approval when he realized the only thing he could access was the daylogs and schedules. Whoever had designed the security for the personnel files was very, very good. Being denied access to the easy way of obtaining his quarry's data meant that he would have to attempt a more round-a-bout endeavor. The only other way to get into the mech's files involved getting the mech in question into the medbay itself. He could schedule the mysterious scout for a maintenance check-up, but for that he would need the mech's designation. Easy.

Jazz opened the base personnel file they had all uploaded at orientation, then set it to show only mechs from the scout corp. That yielded a list of one hundred and fifty Autobots. A quick refinement of the search parameters to mechs who also possessed green paint narrowed the list to nine. Mirage had given him a snippit showing the scout from the noble's own memory banks, which made the final identification simple.

The scout's designation was Hound and he was rated Scout 1st Class. Now possessing the needed designation, the Polyhexian returned his attention to the illegally accessed medfiles. He opened the schedule and prepared to enter the scout as a patient during Jazz's next shift. However, it had already been done. Between the lines of code that formed the entry was a tiny datafile that would only be noticed by someone with special training in hacking, someone like Jazz. The saboteur scanned the file stringently for viruses but it came back clean, so he opened it. It was a single line message: "Glad to see you did your research, but since I'm such a nice mech I saved you some trouble." –Blackie

Jazz chuckled as he disconnected from the terminal and returned to his studies. Leave to their commander to turn any situation into a training exercise. Blackshot had probably had the scout's entire life-file on his desk within kliks of hearing about Mirage and was simply using Jazz's team's investigation to assess the mech's threat level whilst reminding them to stay on their pede-tips.

By the time the saboteur got off shift he had learned more about the inner workings of a mech than he had ever wanted to know. He now knew where every neural line, energon line, motion control cord, relay fiber, and transformation cog resided in three different frametypes. His natural ability to learn on the fly coupled with his desire to advance his knowledge, knowing the location of vital parts would help him immobilize or eliminate targets faster thus reducing the potential danger level of his missions, led to finishing the anatomy files at an accelerated rate. Sliptwist had barely finished *his third by the time the Polyhexian had finished the entire set of fifteen. Pipes had been surprised, but definitely pleased, and started the saboteur on the Praxian frame and Seeker frame. He also promised to advance the black and white to more difficult work like Triple-changers and Gestalts should his aptitude for learning continue.

Now however, it was the dark-cycle and Jazz had been sent off to enjoy his down time. The black and white went straight to his quarters knowing both his teammates would be there to hear his verdict upon their altered plan of action.

He found himself correct when he entered his room. Bumblebee was recharging lightly on his berth while Mirage sat quietly reading in one of the chairs.

"Good evening, sir." came the soft cultured tones of the blue and white noble. The quiet greeting woke the yellow minibot who gave his own cheerful greeting to his teamleader. Jazz made himself comfortable in a lazy sprawl across his berth and made a comment that Mirage "oughta be usin' mah designation afta' tha' chat we had earlier" before finally yielding to their expectant looks.

"'Kay, first things first, Bee did 'Raj give ya tha lowdown on what happened earlier?"

A short nod from the other berth.

"'N did he tell ya 'bout Blackshot's orders?"

Another nod.

"Good, fortunately fo' us mah plan is goin' ta mesh nicely wit' our new orders. Durin' mah exams Ah happened ta meet a cassette-master by tha designation o' Blaster. He's tha one who beat meh out fo' the comms job. Now tha two o' us happened ta 'ave a lot in commen so Ah intend ta take us from aquaintances ta best buds. Mechs'll get used ta seein' meh wit' him and won' think nothin' o' meh showin' up ta see him while he's on duty. 'Meantime Bee, Ah want ya ta "run into him" and befriend his cassettes. He's got four of 'em. Two Ah've seen, a felinoid n' a rhinoid, tha otha's were sleepin' so Ah don' kno what their forms are. Ya're an Iaconian n' a minibot n' both're known fo' curiosity, use that. It should probableh also be noted tha Ah promised 'em a bit o' protection, seems there's some ignorance 'bout cassettes bein' sparked n' no one really cares ta get educated, so tha may also be a way inta gainin' their friendship. 'Raj, Ah want ya ta lay low. Ya invisible as it is, but try ta avoid tha main areas where our mystery scout is liable ta hang, least 'til Ah figure out how he 'tected ya. Ah'll take care o' his investigation n' then see 'bout counteractin' him so's ya can roam freely. So, gotcha marchin' orders, now let's get some ena'gon, Ah'm starvin'."

His partners chuckled and followed him out to their preferred commissary. Their trip was without incident thanks to Jazz applying his extensive sensor net to ensure 'The Green One' was not nearby.

Jazz knew he would like Hound the moment the mech stepped ped into the medbay. He was polite and friendly as he informed the techs of his appointment and it was easy to see why Hound had caught the noble spy off guard; the mech fairly exuded an air of unassuming gentility.

Before the saboteur could greet the green mech Sliptwist had insinuated *himself into the position of greeter. The slender green and silver mech was not even trying to hide *his flirtatious overtures, and the knowledge that Slip, who was very shy normally, was a virtual interfacing cyberlion was information that Jazz was diligently trying to scrub from his processor. Luckily, Hound seemed just as put off as the visored mech, not that the erotically swaying femme noticed as *he directed the larger, visibly fidgeting, mech to a berth. After an extremely uncomfortable round of unsolicited come-ons Sliptwist finally had mercy on the nearly catatonic scout and left to notify the attending doctor. While *he was gone Jazz took the opportunity to make himself known.

"Hey there, ya seem uncomf'table. Anythin' Ah c'n do ta help?"

The green roughrider looked up frantically. "Ahm afrayda femmes."

Jazz was shocked by the shameful, whispered confession, but covered it quickly by checking the scout's datachart, which had no annotations indicating such a phobia. "It's not in ya chart mah mech, ya want meh ta make a note o' it fo' ya? It'll prevent this from happenin' ag'in."

The terrified mech nodded gratefully. No sooner had the saboteur entered the notation than Sliptwist was back and glaring daggers at the Polyhexian interloper standing by '*his' patient. Now, normally Jazz had no problems with the little femme but even he knew better than to challenge one who had staked a claim on a mech. Having a very healthy self-preservation instinct the black and white remained quiet and stepped back over to his learning station. Hound let out a faint whine at being abandoned to the clutches of the evil, tittering femme, but Jazz knew the scout's terror would only be lasting a short while longer. The saboteur knew what would occur when the doctor arrive.

True to form, as soon as Lightsout read the datachart he uttered the very words that would bring the scout the most relief. "Technician Sliptwist, I want you to go and organize the paint inventory. I am transferring Technician Jazz to this case."

The visored mech had to stifle a chuckle and concentrate on maintaining a docile composure when he observed Sliptwist's outraged expression. "Sir, what have I done wrong to warrant such a punishment?" *he actually managed to retain control of *his vocalizer and at least feign a semblance of respect when questioning the removal from the presence of *his crush.

The physician, kind mech that he was, saved the green and silver mech from verbal embarrassment by showing *him the chart. The femme read the annotation and straightened in surprise. However, Sliptwist realized that *he could have been saved the embarrassment of this moment had *he done his job and accepted the rebuke of inventory duty. The green and silver mech strode over to the storage, but looked back once, optics filled with sadness for the mech *he could never even speak to simply because of *his frametype.

With the obstacle out of the way Jazz was free to size up his quarry. The scout lived up to his roughrider line, his armor was rugged, angular, and thick. Yet he moved almost silently, an ability that made him a dangerous enemy and wonderful ally, especially when coupled with his Vector Sigma gift, holography. His file suggested that the limit to his gift had never been fully mapped and that he might even be capable of giving the illusion of solidity to smaller images. Jazz immediately began to wonder how the mech had managed to avoid recruitment into Special Operations.

The answer to that question would have to wait though, because Jazz had still not found the answer to Mirage's detection. Perhaps the answer lay within the mech himself. It was a rare occurrence, but occasionally there came about sparks so sensitive they could sense the very presence of any sparks in their vicinity, the All-Spark Blessed. Supposedly these Blessed were mechs that were terminated prematurely causing the Well to return them as a new life. They were almost always empaths or telepaths. Sadly, the Cybertron of the Golden Era had created a stigma against such potentially invasive gifts and caused most Blessed to hide their true natures, even from their medics.

With this suspicion in processor, the black and white paid careful attention to Hound's tones and body language looking for any indicators that would serve as confirmation of the rare gift. While he was distracted Lightsout had given the scout a thorough work-over and was currently speaking to the mech about getting counseling for his fear of femmes. Now that the source of his phobia was gone the green mech's responses were relaxed, but he declined the psychiatric aid.

If Jazz had to pick a single phrase to describe Hound it would be "a right friendly mech." The roughrider would have made a fantastic interrogator, his openness and gentle countenance had already gotten the white and tan medic to pour out his troubles and was well on his way to finally letting his tortured thoughts go. The saboteur was in awe of such a natural info digger and knew that he wanted to befriend this mech who was at the very least a probable source for all the base's personal secrets. Jazz's processor switched tracks immediately and began to prepare a set of conversation openers.

Lightsout finished with the physical exam, and his own emotional purge, a few kliks later and stepped over to a stationary subspace counter to prepare the needed viral updates and firewall boosters. Seizing the opportunity, Jazz struck. "So, what do scouts do 'xactly?"

This mech was an enigma. Hound watched the cheerful visored mech save him from the phantoms of his past embodied in an innocent femme like it was simply another orn's work. At first he thought it was just because he was a nice mech, but when the black and white stepped closer the scout noticed a familiar scent lingering on the mech's armor. It was the smell of the invisible one. Hound was elated! He had not meant to oust one of their own spies and had been looking for the elusive blue mech to apologize. Then his elation turned to apprehension. The visored 'technician' was obviously an associate of the invisible spy, and therefore spec ops as well, and might be looking for retribution on his friend's behalf.

Hound examined the mech from the corner of his optics as the black and white assisted the doctor with his exam. It was through this that he discovered the mech's designation was Jazz. Jazz's cheerful demeanor never wavered though, and it almost seemed like he intended to befriend the scout. Hound's thoughts whirled in a momentary logic loop, what could the blue spy's ally gain from becoming his friend? Did he mean to lure the roughrider into some trap?

Intrigued, but still wary, Hound decided to humor the visored mech. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could tract the invisible one through Jazz, apologize, and hopefully assuage the black and white's ire before it could come down upon the scout's helm. The best case scenario also might result in Hound gaining both their friendships.

It was for this reasoning that the green grounder answered truthfully when the visored mech began his questioning and eagerly engaged in friendly conversation. It continued until the exam visit was over, but neither mech had satisfied their mutual curiosity for the other. This led to a promise to meet up for mid-orn energon, which then resulted in several subsequent meetings.

The invisible spy never showed, but his scent remained fresh upon Jazz's plating. This evidence of continued contact kept Hound's attention on the black and white as his only source, although as the orns passed the scout found his tentative acquaintance deepening into a genuine companionship that appeared to be shared mutually by the visored grounder.

After almost a full decacycle Hound began to notice a pattern. If Jazz came off shift before their meetings the alluring scent would be faded, but if he came from his quarters the smell would be cling to him like a pungent veil.

This caused the roughrider to alter his plans. Using his huntsmen-built signal dampener and Vector Sigma-gifted holography, Hound took to lurking around his new friend's quarters until he finally caught scent of his quarry.

Thus began a game of hide and seek as the green mech sought to corner the spy for an overdue apology.

A decacycle after the altered plans had been put into action Mirage was sure he was being stalked. At first he thought it was just paranoia left over from his shocking capture, but after the tenth time of spotting the Green Menace, as the noble had labeled him, Mirage was sure it was no coincidence. The blue and white got in plenty of 'practice' in magically slipping away as the orns went by, but enough was enough. It was bad enough that Ops had released counter-rumors that stated the noble was a trainee and walking the base invisible had been a controlled test for the real field of battle. A test that he purportedly failed, thanks to the Green Menace. It rankled his plating to be thought of as inferior and he was not going to tolerate being followed by the instigator of his humiliation too.

Unfortunately, thanks to the Ops lockdown, he was not permitted any contact with non-ops mechs and confrontation was therefore out of the question. So, instead he circled back around through the less used corridors to hopefully hide in Jazz's quarters until his pursuer gave up.

Mirage thought he had eluded the Green Menace and was comfortable ensconced in Jazz's lounge chair, a suspicious duplicate of the ones found exclusively in the Ops lounge. He was happily conversing with his partners, enjoying the unanticipated camaraderie, when the door chime sounded. The noble swiftly cloaked himself and moved to the far corner of the room, so the unexpected visitor would not notice him, while Jazz rose to answer the chime.

When the door slid back it revealed the penitent form of a certain green scout.


	7. Until Offlining Do Us Part

The tavern was dark when he entered, really it was little more than a blackened hole beneath the half crumbled wall of the factory that had once stood behind the drinking establishment. It had been abandoned shortly before the bombing that had leveled most of Iacon and was therefore blessedly empty of sparkless frames. The Autobots were stretched so thin trying to protect their assets that clean-up had fallen low on the priority scale and a wrong turn into an untended area often revealed a grisly view of exploded, shrapnel-skewered frames still lost in the throws of a terrible death. The lack of this to oft seen horror was a grand relief to the monochrome mech as he slipped inside. The absence also made it impossible for an infiltrator to hide as one of the offline and therefore his meeting with his master would go unobserved.

As the matte black mech made his way to the back of the deserted bar a shadow disengaged itself from the wall and made itself known. The black mech stopped, still partially sheltered by the remaining piece of the bar, and pinged the shadow for an ident-code. Codes were swapped and safe-words confirmed before both parties relaxed minutely in the presence of a trusted partner.

"Tempo… your last report was most informative, what have you to add that cannot be trusted to the usual routes?"

"Thanks," replied the spy, bowing deferentially to his superior. "Broadcast tapped the link yesterorn, but thanks to our target's renewed interest in me I will be unable to attend. I was wondering how you wanted to handle the transfer."

The shadow's optics cycled in thought for a moment. "Send Gadget to the rendezvous point, his data storage should be sufficient for the job and his absence can be explained as medical leave for another mod."

There was a soft rotating noise from the black mech's chest and his optics dimmed as though he were listening to something. A grin and stifled chuckle later, the spy explained, "Gadget wants to know if that means he is being given permission to actually get a new mod."

The shadow smiled, a wistful one full of affection that the war did not permit to be shown. "Yes, that is permission, and don't worry about the White Queen, I'll explain it to *him."

"Thank you Dark Queen."

"Your welcome, now skedaddle. You have a target to watch and an excursion to plan. Say 'hi' to 'Cast for me." The shadow melted back into the gloom and disappeared. The spy left just as carefully, dodging from shelter to shelter until he reached the Autobot base. He reentered by crawling through the old tunnel system and was allowed back in by the cassettes who had been assigned guard duty to this area due to their small size. Rewind and Eject hugged him, grateful that he was back inside where it was safe. The spy allowed his matte black stealth paint to fade into his normal colors of cheery red and yellow.

"Hey mah trippin' bitty bots, I missed ya too, but the D.Q.s got us some new dancin' instructions."

0o0o0o0

Jazz was having the time of his functioning. His friendship with Blaster was going so well it seemed almost pre-ordained. The two of them had so much in common it was unbelievable and they often lost track of time when they met up, as attested to by Jazz's team having to remind the saboteur of his duty shifts no less than six times. On the seventh almost late arrival to his shift the Polyhexian started setting an internal alarm, to the great relief of his team.

It was also becoming commonplace for either the cassette-master or the 'medtech' to seek the other out when one was on-duty but the other not, to provide the working mech with some entertainment. Although Blaster was sticking with comm calls after an incident with Ratchet, DMS, MHA, MD, CMO, esq. That terrifying encounter had left both mechs with a sudden phobia of flying medical equipment. Jazz also could now lay to rest that question he had posed about those dented soldiers.

Still though, the fact that mecha didn't even give him a passing glance when he came to see the red and yellow commsmech was a boon worth almost any price. His free reign on that deck had allowed him to slip several discreet recording devices and a single search virus into the communications array that hopefully would help root out whoever Rapidburst was talking to. Jazz had considered attaching a virus to the outgoing datastreams to try and identify the 'Con on the receiving end. However, he was concerned that it might alert the double agents to the whole investigation.

Instead, the black and white just bided his time and waited for the spy to slip up. While he waited, the saboteur cum medtech took the opportunity to further his relationship with Blaster. It was reaching the point where most outsiders had begun to think they were interfacing and there was even rumor that a betting pool had been set up. When these rumors reached the pair, via Hound the everloyal mech that he was, they just laughed, pointed at one another in soundless incredulity, and laughed again.

Then the problem started. Hound had shown himself to be funny, reliable, and genteel, but Jazz was no closer to uncovering the mech's secret than the orn they first met. To top that off, it appeared the scout had connected Jazz to Mirage and was using the saboteur to stalk the noble. This of course was making the blue and white extremely paranoid, to the point where Mirage was almost ready to use the 'dirty' vents as an alternate route.

It all decided to culminate one orn when Mirage burst back into Jazz's secure quarters not five kliks after having left to deliver a status update to Blackshot. The noble curled himself into Jazz's chair and started asking Bumblebee about his orn. The minibot arched an optic ridge at the odd behavior and leveled a look at his teamleader as if to say 'you're in charge and technically this is your fault, fix it.' However, Jazz ignored it and engaged the evasive spy in some distraction conversation.

Then the chime signaled somemech at the door. The not hiding spy shot out of his appropriated chair and took a very defensive stance in the corner. The look in his optics pleaded with Jazz not to open the door, but the saboteur had had enough. It was time to resolve the issue once and for all. With that in mind the black and white strode over and opened the door, leaning on its frame with his characteristic grin in place. He was expecting Hound to be on the other side, but was not expecting the downcast, almost downtrodden, expression across the mech's faceplates. The scout looked like someone had kicked his turbohound puppy, no pun intended, and the Polyhexian found himself compelled to offer whatever comfort he could.

"Hey mah mech, what's wit' tha droopy face? Ya in trouble or summat?"

"No Jazz, I'm fine. May I come in?"

The saboteur waved the other in with a sweeping flourish, but took the chair so Hound would sit on the berth, away from Mirage's corner.

"So, ya gonna tell meh wha's gotcha mood all off-kilter?"

If anything that statement seemed to make the green mech wilt even more. "Well, I made a mistake. I thought I was doing my job, but I ended up messing up someone else's. It was unintended and I wanted to apologize to them. But they're so mad at me that they don't want me anywhere near them."

By the way Hound's mournful optics swept over the cloaked noble in the corner Jazz knew that, yet again, the scout had detected the supposedly untraceable spy. It was also very obvious to the black and white that the roughrider was sincere in his regret, but if Mirage did not wish to acknowledge the apology then Jazz would not force the issue. That did mean he would stop being a good friend though.

"Hound mah main machine, 'm sorreh yah c'n't 'pologize, but tha ain't ya fault. If'n ya tried n' were turned away then ya done all ya could. 'Sides, sometimes mechs gotta have time ta get their processors straight n' cool down afor' they c'n reconcile wit' someone who has offended 'em."

The scout glanced up, a glimmer of hope starting to kindle in his spark. "You think so?"

"Ah kno so." Jazz declared with a grin, watching as Hound regained some of his normal cheer and straightened from his slump. "But, Ah'm curious, jus' what didja do tha' was s'bad?"

The green roughrider had the grace to look sheepish. "You remember that incident a couple of decacycles ago with the mech that got caught spying in the hall, but turned out to be one of our own?" a short nod indicated the saboteur did. "Well, I was the one who caught him and according to what I could gather later, he got in a whole parcel of trouble thanks to me."

Jazz gave a low whistle. "How'd ya catch him?"

Now, Hound was not stupid and it suddenly dawned on him just why a close associate of the blue spy would be pursuing him. If Jazz had been a normal soldier then his response would have been something along the lines of 'Served the slagger right for spying on his own', but the black and white's known contact with the spy eliminated that possibility. Hound had, admittedly, been concerned that Jazz was out for vengeance on his friend's behalf, but then any comments should have taken a format to determine remorse or guilt. The fact that the 'medtech' was only interested in the roughrider's method of detection caused Hound to realize that he was being investigated as a potential threat to a valued SpecOps asset. This also caused Hound to re-assess the veracity of the rumors that suggested the spy was a rookie in training.

Regardless, the scout was not particularly secretive and was quite willing to answer truthfully. "I smelled him."

The Polyhexian's optic ridge arched as his face showed stunned disbelief. "Ya wha'?"

"I smelled him. I am hunter-clan, and as is tradition, I was implanted with extremely sensitive olfactory sensors to aid me in furthering the clan's functions. The sensitivity to scents that I would have once used to locate and track wild mechanimals has come in very handy in sourcing out 'Cons and where they've been. Normally I don't pay much heed to the scents inside our base, but his smell was very unusual. It reminded me of newly shined chrome and crystal dust. At first, I thought my friend had managed to acquire some noble-class wax, he was planning on a romantic dark-cycle with his trinemates, but then the smell moved behind me. Smells don't just move arbitrarily and there was nomech visible who could have shifted between me and the wall. So, on a hunch, I leaned back. The rest is, well, well-known thanks to the prolific rumors that Thundercall's trine gleefully spread." Throughout the entire narrative Hound's faceplates had shown open neutrality, but the last statement was met with a decidedly rueful grimace. Jazz was shocked by the simplicity and utterly convinced that the scout was telling the truth.

Hound was glad to have cleared the atmosphere, so to speak, with a mech he had happily come to call friend. They discussed a few more pleasant topics with Bumblebee finally feeling comfortable enough to join in, before the scout felt he needed to leave. He knew that the blue spy had been huddling in the corner the whole time and took pity upon how cramped and uncomfortable he must have been. So, Hound stood, bid Jazz and Bumblebee a good orn, and left.

The door slid shut and Jazz rounded on the corner, arms akimbo, with impatient expectance. Mirage rematerialized with a defiant glar, wrapping his noble superiority around himself in a haughty shield.

"What?" he sniffed, nasal ridge upturned in rebellious disdain. Jazz rolled his optics behind his visor and widened his stance to cock one hip out. "Ya kno what. He was pourin' 'is spark out n' practic'lleh beggin' ya ta fo'give 'im, n' wha' do ya do?! Ya give 'im da col' shouldah."

The Polyhexian's accent had become so thick in his passionate exclamation that Mirage was having genuine difficulty understanding him. The noble knew his teamleader was disappointed in him, but it was none of his business. He was about to deliver a scathing retort when he realized that it was not his teamleader who was disappointed, it was his friend. That caused Mirage to faulter and drop all his arrogant pretenses in shame. He glanced over to Bumblebee, who had remained silent the whole time, but his face bore a look similar to Jazz's. Unable to meet the optics of either of his friends, the spy tried to explain. "How can I forgive the one who had destroyed all the respect that I have worked so hard to earn?"

Sensing a larger, underlying problem, Jazz relaxed his stance and sank onto the berth. "What are ya talkin' 'bout 'Raj? Bee n' Ah still respect ya!"

The noble gave them a sad half-grin. "And for that I am most grateful. I do not know what I would do if you two were to laugh at me too."

Bumblebee leaned forward, a serious expression darkening his faceplates, as he entered the conversation at last. "Who's laughing at you?"

"Everyone. It has always been difficult for me to associate with other mecha because they can never see past my noble heritage. I tried at first, but everyone expected me to be snooty or consider myself above the 'common mechs'. Despite all my efforts to prove otherwise, they still treated me as an outcast. Eventually, it just became easier to distance myself from the others. I was also often accused of using my former status to obtain my current rank and position, and it has only been by virtue of vorns of perfection in the completion of my missions that I have been able to silence the most fervent of my antagonists. My undetectable and untraceable reputation has been ruined by that bumbling scout and all my former detractors are rearing their ugly helms again to defame me. So tell me, just why should I forgive the mech who has caused all that?"

Jazz and Bumblebee just looked at him in sorrow. They had heard that there was still discrimination amongst the Autobots, Pit, the cassettes were proof of that, but usually it stemmed from ignorance, not a purposeful intolerance. So, it was with a heavy spark that Jazz replied to the noble spy's vehement declaration. "'Raj, Ah'm not sayin' tha' what they done is right, n' we gotcha back if'n ya wan' some backup, but ya c'n't blame Hound fo' their prej'dice. Ya need ta think 'bout this from his perspective. He's a loyal 'Bot n' ta his thinkin' true Autobots would walk aroun' openleh, not ghostin' round under a cloak. Ya gotta admit tha' if ya found an unknown mech sneakin' 'round like ya was, ya would be s'spicious too. N' yak no, if'n ya gave him a chance ya might find ya got 'nother friend who'll defend ya 'gainst the naysayehs."

The blue spy graced him with a skeptical look, but unenthusiasticly relented, "I will give your suggestion a due amount of deliberation, but I make no promises."

The saboteur and minibot spy were not happy that their friend was continuing to be stubborn, but understood that a long history of hurt made it difficult for the noble to easily open up to others.

0o0o0o0

Fate had apparently decided that the Autobots' functionings had become too stagnant, and so, to spice things up, a Decepticon attack occurred. There was no ground incursion, but the Seekers and other flight-capable 'Cons were bombing the base like their sparks depended upon it. Autobot Command had tentatively decided that the fliers were probably attempting to soften them up for a more invasive attack yet to come. The gunners just laughed at the idea of anything short of a planetary break-up being able to 'soften' their base as they powered up the massive defensary armaments and proceeded to remind the 'Con fliers just why a direct assault was such a bad idea.

The true purpose of the bombing run was not discovered for nearly two joor, and even then its discovery was accidental.

A lucky strike managed to destroy one of the comm spires, the resulting powersurge overloaded the console it fed into, fused the datacords of the jacked in commsmech to the console ports, and shorted out a large majority of the mech's internal relays. Normally, this would not be considered spark-threatening and the affected mech would be carted to the medbay for the time-consuming, but simple, endeavor of having the blown circuits replaced. What made this event so dangerous, and resulted in a medical team being sent to the patient, were the fused datacords. The mech's metaphysical self had been fully immersed in his station and the surge had destroyed the relays that would have allowed him to return to his frame. Severing the cords would, at best, result in a fractured meta, and at worst, leave them with a spark trapped in a processor-dead frame.

When the call came through to the Medical Wing, Jazz immediately volunteered to assist the assigned medic. He had gotten a very bad feeling in his spark ever since the first bomb fell and the saboteur felt an overwhelming need to be sure his best friend was safe.

The triage team was still half the base away when the Polyhexian's audials picked up the first screams. The visored mech abandoned his group to race ahead and hopefully thwart whatever or whoever had infiltrated the base before they did any damage. He skidded to a stop at the final corner and unsubspaced a small mirror. The screams had ceased which was making him antsy, but he knew that rushing in could get him killed. If his caution meant no survivors, then at least he would still be functioning to avenge the fallen.

Jazz slid the mirror just past the wall's edge and saw that the hall was empty. Still wary of unseen intruders, the black and white crouched down to skulk carefully over to the Comms Deck entrance. The door had been hacked, meaning it was permanently open until the hacker lifted the override, so the saboteur used his mirror again to check the status of the room. He counted five Decepticon covert operatives and eleven empty frames, the total number of their entire Communications Division sans one. Despite knowing that all members of Comms were supposed to be on duty during a battle Jazz could see no sign of Blaster's frame anywhere.

Although still mourning for the departed sparks of mechs he had been friends with, it gave him hope that the cassette-master might still be functioning.

The Polyhexian knew that he needed to call for back-up to deal with the threat, for although he was quite capable of taking care of these five by himself, the medical staff would soon arrive and he did not have an excuse that would allay their suspicions. A 'normal' soldier would not be able to down five ruthless assassins in close combat without it being a setup, and Jazz had no desire to visit the brig while being investigated for being a spy. It would be the Mirage Fiasco all over again.

However, there was a major snag. In order to get back-up he would have to use the comm links, which were currently under Decepticon control, and would undoubtedly alert the invaders that the gig was up. Luck might still be with him though, there was an ancient Ops code that had been designed to appear as a light static under the normal comm chatter until it was filtered through a false vocalizer. The code would then register as a sequence of musical tones that would stand for letters and glyphs depending upon the number and pitch of each set of notes. The glyphs and letters could then be transposed into any number of cipher algorithms as preset by those who were using the musical transmission.

Since there was no one who would possess a counter-algorithm, Jazz could not do much more than send a basic uncoded message through the music cipher and hope for the best.

A few kliks later, just as the triage team rounded the corner, the saboteur cum medtech received an answer, -:-message received, response to situation en route-:-

Jazz motioned to the rejoining group to get low and stay quiet. He checked around the door again, curious as to why the 'Cons were not watching their backs. The enemy mechs appeared to be preoccupied with the ventilation shafts, but before he could may any conjectures on that oddity, his backup arrived.

The reinforcements though, were not what, or rather who, Jazz had been expecting. Three femmes, whose beauty disguised their untold deadly grace, now stared a him with amused expressions. They knew they were not what he expected and instead of taking offense they found humor in it. The leader of the tiny group was positively the tallest femme the saboteur had ever seen and bore testament to an unusual code-distribution in that *he was also a triplechanger. Gleaming black plating was criss-crossed with golden highlights and bright splashes of crimson. However, despite the regal-looking armor, the triplechanger showed a decidedly impish air. Especially when *he gave the dazed Polyhexian a roguish grin and wink as *he and the smaller femmes glided noiselessly into the Decepticon infested Comms Deck.

Chafing under the restrictions of his undercover guise, Jazz could only watch the short functioning mayhem as the battle savvy Autobot mecha tore through the unprepared Decepticon assassins like a plasma cutter through untempered armor. When the last graying chassis dropped from the claws of its femme executioner, the awed black and white motioned the med team to enter.

There were no survivors. Jazz dutifully helped in turning over each grey frame in hopes that even one spark might be saved, but it was futile. The visored mech's grief driven anger came to a head when he overturned the offlined form of Rapidburst. He figured that the 'Cons had somehow learned that their spy had been discovered and chose to remove the weak link under the façade of sabotaging the Autobot's communications.

Jazz's impotent rage was internalized savagely, for to give voice to the roiling storm in his processor would be to subject himself to scrutiny for the depth of his reaction, and possible psychological counseling. Alternatively, he focused on the quiet sounds of the living mecha in the room to calm himself. It was during this moment of listening that he caught the tiny sounds of something scuffling up in the vents. Grinning malevolently at the thought of possibly having another 'Con on which to express his displeasure, the saboteur leaped up to grab a convenient ceiling pipe with a magnetized servo, and yanked off the access grate.

The saboteur's rage melted into relieved surprise when he found himself visor to optics with Steeljaw. On the felinoid's back rested a red and yellow datacrystal player. Joy filled his lightened spark when the Polyhexian saw that his city-kin had indeed remained safe and he offered a servo to the crouching cassette to aid his descent.

After they reached ground level, Blaster resumed his mech-form and found himself enveloped in a tight embrace from his distraught friend. Returning the desperate hug, the cassette-master tried to console his counterpart. "Shhh, it is alright mech, I'm safe. I'm not goin' anywhere."

"Ah kno, but Ah heard tha screamin' n' then… n' then when Ah got'ere… all the offline frames… Ah knew ya were s'posed ta be here… Ah thought…" Jazz took a moment to do a quick reboot and settle his systems. "Ya neva' 'llowed ta do tha' ta meh 'gain, ya hear meh?"

Blaster gave his friend a soft smile. "You got it mah Main Machine. So, on a different tune, how'd you offline tha assassins? I know you have a bit of combat trainin', but most of these medics should have been slaughtered like cyberkittens."

"Tha femmes took care o' them. Was a sight ta behold!" replied the grateful saboteur.

The commsmech looked around in confusion. "What femmes?"

Jazz spun around to see a room of medics, but no femmes, "Huh, guess they must a had 'nother job ta do n' hadta leave." It did not really matter to the visored mech, Blaster was safe and that was the important thing. Well, the fact that their mission was going to suffer another setback thanks to Rapidburst's offlining was important too, but he would fret about it later.

0o0o0o0

Eventually, the seekers figured out that their infiltration team had been killed and the bombing was called off. Autobot Command still waited an extra joor to be sure there would be no further attacks, then returned the base to its normal standby status.

Jazz was allowed to go since his regular shift had ended several joors earlier and the Polyhexian made his way swiftly to his quarters to start writing up his report for Blackshot.

There was a strange datacrystal on his berth. As much as Jazz loved clutter, he could tell anyone exactly where to find any given item with perfect accuracy. The true purpose of his ever-shifting 'sorting' system was to befuddle enemy spies and prevent them from obtaining sensitive data. However, he never, ever left anything on his berth, ever. Wary, the visored grounder scanned the room with every setting his blue optic shield possessed. There were no booby-traps or explosives anywhere, so Jazz inched forward to nudge the crystal. Nothing. Satisfied that there were no external traps, he carefully hooked the datacrystal up to a disposable memory core to check for viruses and other nasty coding surprises. Again, nothing.

After he had exhausted every method to test for subterfuge and the crystal came up clean every time, he decided it might be safe to access the stored files. Still he was not going to be so foolish as to plug it into himself, instead he downloaded the contents directly to one of his reinforced ops-grade datapads.

The crystal only held two things, a comm number and a short message, which read:

"Spark's end does not the mission terminate. Look not to the verbal cues, seeker of justice, and you will find the evidence you crave. Should the light of understanding not grace your meta, call for aid and it will find you. Be not surprised by the form it will take."

Ok… cue the cryptic and mysterious benefactor. Because that's just what Jazz needed to make his already complicated functioning complete. The Polyhexian put the pad and crystal aside with a roll of his unseen optics and began composing his report. Halfway through, it dawned upon him that he would have to include a segment on his 'gift'. Someone out there apparently knew more about Jazz's mission than the musically designated mech himself did. Joy.

0o0o0o0

The lack of ground fighting had given Mirage plenty of time to do as he had promised and think realistically about the situation with Hound. Unfortunately, it was just making his thoughts go in circles. So, he walked the base in the hopes that physical activity might alleviate his troubled processors.

All the suffering he endured, but it was not brought on intentionally. Being treated as less than a Cybertronian, but the scout was just doing his job. Mirage was innocent yet unjustly regarded, but Hound was also not at fault for that.

The spy's helm was beginning to ache.

He turned down the corridor that would eventually lead to the upper levels and the observation towers. Interestingly, the current pain in his metaphysical diodes just so happened to turn the opposite corner and come in the direction of the invisible noble. Mirage was about to turn back the way he had come when he really got a look at the other.

The roughrider looked terrible. His shoulders were slumped and his optics dim. To the blue mech's optics he resembled one whose spark had just been shredded and had the broken remains dumped in his lap. It was this sight that finally drove Mirage to a decision. He decided he never wanted to see that look on Hound's faceplates again, especially not when there was something the noble could do about it.

Remaining cloaked, Mirage stalked silently down the hall til his path converged with the scout's. Drawing up all his courage, the spy uttered the one phrase he never thought he could yield to 'The Green Menace.'

"I forgive you."

Hound froze. He had been so wrapped up in his melancholic thoughts that he had not even registered when the noble's scent had reached his olfactory sensors. The green mech stared in disbelief at what his audials were registering. He was forgiven?! But the spy hated him! His shock caused him to ask incredulously for clarification. "Excuse me, what?"

Mirage had begun to walk away, but he turned at the exclamation. He decloaked so the other could clearly see his emotions on his faceplates. "I said, I forgive you. Now chin up, I liked you better when you were happy." he restated with a coy smile.

He likes me! Hound's mood swung wildly from depressed to ecstatic. Knowing that this would be his only opportunity to befriend the spy, the scout took the plunge. "Would you like to visit the commissary with me?"

The noble hesitated, vascillating between staying out of sight of his detractors or finally making a new friend like Jazz had so pointedly suggested. The look of pleading hope on Hound's faceplates made the choice for him. "That would be lovely. I would enjoy accompanying you."


	8. An End to a Long Orn

It was a known and accepted fact that Prowl functioned for his job. His strict adherence and insistence on the use of proper dataforms was renowned across the army. Even the Decepticons were well-versed on the Autobot SIC's apparent love of all things work. In truth, the Praxian despised dataforms. The unending stacks that piled across his desk were not a haven to him, they were a frustration that invariable caused him a processor ache every orn. Why then did he insist on using them all the time? Because the one thing Prowl was, was a stickler for the rules. Without rules the world was chaos; chaos was Decepticon. Prowl was not a Decepticon. The rules demanded dataforms. So, Prowl filled out stacks of dataforms. This seeming incongruity with the SIC's base programming as a tactician would have puzzled most, but then, most did not take into account the difference between dataforms and datawork. A love for one did not equate a love for both. Prowl could spend joors of his offduty time sifting through raw data for that perfect bit that would allow him to complete his mission plan, and at the end he would be completely relaxed. Ask him to do the same with the dataforms and at the end you would find a frustrated, I'm-going-to-cut-you-off-at-the-peds-if-you-speak- to-me-again angry tactician. Smokescreen was a prime example of this. Prowl's trinemate despised forms and avoided using them at all costs, yet he loved datawork so much that he was one of the finest diversionary tacticians in the army. Once, Prowl had punished his mate with dataform duty for an orn; it took the poor mech nearly a decacycle of Psycho-Analyst duty to recover his poise.

The black and white Praxian was much the same in opinion, but he could not afford to shirk his responsibility like his Beta. His understanding that dataforms helped keep the army running smoothly by providing accountability usually aided him in getting through it. He still hated filling them out though, and having to correct others' poorly completed forms only compounded the sentiment.

The worst though, was crisis forms. Crisis' would cause a doubling or tripling in the number of stacks of his desk and meant that his job as Head Tactician was put on hold while he pulled several full dark-cycle shifts in a row on top of his normal shift work. It was during orns like these that he would think back fondly upon the secretary he had once employed to deal with the stacks. The mech had loved filling them out and sorting them by priority so all Prowl had to do was sign the important ones. It made both of their functionings very pleasant. Sadly, that mech had been killed a few vorn into the war during an assassination attempt on the doorwinger SIC and it had struck the Praxian's spark heavily that another had ceased to function because of their proximity to him. After that he could not bring himself to hire anymech else. Not that anymech actually knew that was his reason. The majority had assumed he was just asserting his natural controlling nature, which was considered typical for a tactician, and it was further propagated by his own statement that taking both jobs would increase efficiency by decreasing the number of optics to see any given form.

Prowl still hated it, especially now when he had to file bereavement forms, inactive/deceased unit forms, compensation forms for surviving family, asset distribution forms, and vacant quarters forms. Not to mention half a dozen different reports on how the infiltration had occurred, why it was not detected, and what was going to be done to prevent another such occurrence.

There were orns when the Praxian was convinced that the voluminous amounts of dataforms connected to any one incident were some sort of Decepticon plot to offline him slowly.

After all the forms were completed, checked, and filed, Prowl received the distinct displeasure of getting to issue requisition forms to transfer replacement comm officers from other bases. He also promoted the sole survivor of their own unit to Chief of Communications with a stiff recommendation that he complete his lieutenant's training A.S.A.P. so he would have a comparable physical rank. Then he transferred the standby commsmech out of the Medical Division, thankful that he had had the foresight to give that stipulation to his placement. The doorwinger was still positive that he would be receiving a visit from the indomitable Ratchet later that orn to complain about the loss of a talented intern, or at least that would be the public reason. Ratchet was one of Prowl's few surviving friends, but neither celebrated the long-lasting companionship openly, they did have rather oppositely characterized hard-afted reputations to uphold after all. However, after every tough battle or mission the Praxian knew he could trust the doctor to find some excuse to pound down his door. Then they would spend a joor 'arguing' with highgrade and sympathetic shoulders for the enevitable meltdowns.

His anticipation of that moment when he would be able to expunge his feelings of failure and find reassurance, gave him the strength he needed to slog through the rest of the datapad mountain range erected on his desk.

0o0o0o0

"So… let's start with a short synopsis, just so I can make sure everyone is on the same pad." said Blackshot as he looked sternly at his crestfallen ops squad later that same darkcycle. "First, you don't make the cut for comms, which I don't really blame yo for since that Praxian hard-aft was in charge of it. Secondly, Mirage got captured, thus putting a spotlight on our operation and forcing us to back off any more forward plans we were might have had. Then, we finally got a break with that commsmech only to have that avenue burned because the 'Cons got tipped off and cut their losses, literally. Autopsy showed Rapidburst's major energon lines were all severed. And now, we have a mystery mech who may possess valuable info, but wants to play games with us. So, have I left anything out?"

The three hung their helms and answered in the negative. Blackshot leaned back in the chair he had commandeered and rubbed his nasal ridge. "Well, there is one last problem to be addressed before we start looking for new solution. Jazz," the addressed saboteur raised his helm to look his commander in the optics. If he was going to be singled out for chastisement, he would at least receive it with dignity.

"Jazz, I just want to confirm a point of confusion from your last report. In it you stated that you sent a coded message via music cipher to SpecOps, who dispatched a group of available femmes to provide backup. The only problem with that is that Ops has no record of ever receiving your messeage, so my question is, who were you talking to?"

"Ah don' kno," Jazz replied, wide-optic'd. "but someone replied an affirmative. Is it possible tha' whoeva' answered meh is tha same mech who left tha crystal?"

The commander tucked his chin down. "I'm thinking so, and whoever it is has connections in the Femme Division. While I have no doubt that any femme group who noticed your plight would have stepped in to render aid, I know for a fact that no such group was legally operating in the area. That means a covert team was pulled off assignment to help you and that does not happen without someone pulling some strings."

"So why are we not using that comm number?" Mirage interposed. "It seems to me that anyone with those kinds of connections, who is willingly offering assistance, should be taken up on their offer before it is detracted."

"That is an option. However, I am hesitant to allow it." Blackshot stated, crossing his arms over his thoracic armor. "If I know the femmes, and I do, then they are going to want something in trade for their services. I am concerned that the price may be too high."

"Yessir, but if I may interject," replied Bumblebee. "there is no harm in at least calling them. We can ask for their price up front and if we don't like, we can decline or negotiate for better terms."

"Yeah, and sureleh tha femmies are n't tha' callous as ta wit'hold info tha' would otha'wise jeopardize tha safeteh o' tha 'Bots. They would be declared traitors by even tha Prime himself fo' such behavior." Jazz added.

"No, they would not withhold information, but they would make us work for it instead of giving it freely." Blackshot rubbed his nasal ridge again as he resigned his misgivings for the good of the mission. "I don't trust the femmes, but your suggestions do have merit. You have my permission to contact the benefactor. However, none of you are permitted to meet with them without backup present, if they don't like that, oh well. You are also required to contact me before agreeing to anything and I will possess final veto power so they can't get mad at you. Understood?"

"Yessir." the three answered.

"Good, now get some recharge, its been a long orn." with that fond farewell Blackshot shimmied into the vents to return to Ops.

0o0o0o0

::We need a new patsy.::

::I know that already. Wish Soundwave wouldn't have been so impulsive with ordering the old one's execution. He could have at least given us time to secure a new sap to use.::

::Well? What are we going to do?::

::I heard their transferring some new mecha in to cover the gaps and you will seduce one of them.::

::Ugh, I hate having to interface with mechs other than you. It just doesn't feel the same.::

::Orders are orders. When we finally get out of this overly sentimental pit-hole I promise to give you the interface of your functioning, but for now you have to FOCUS!::

::Yeah, yeah. Do you have any prospects that might show more promise than the others?"

::Well, there is this one mech who actually being transferred to the Comms Division from Medical and you might use that promotion as an opener to stroke a bit of ego.::

::Excellent, he will be first on my list. I was wondering if it might be prudent to have an extra on the side, just in case this one goes the way of 'Burst. Whacha think?::

::Can you maintain that many relationships at once?::

::Can I maintain… you insult me. Of course I can. I'll just keep them at friendship level until I need somewhere to release my 'grief'. Shouldn't be too hard with all these emotionally dependant soft-sparks around.::

::Your smelterpit, go ahead.::

::Thanks for your support, not. Glitch.::

::Slag for processors.::

::I love you.::

::Love you too.::

0o0o0o0

Blaster sank onto his berth and ejected his four cassettes. They crowded around him in a grateful-we're-still-functioning group hug. None of them wanted to contemplate the idea of continuing to function without their family and this orn's invasion came a little bit to close to making that a reality. They stayed like that, clinging to one another, for half a joor before Blaster reluctantly pulled away. "Alright mah bitlets, I love ya all dearly, but orn's not over yet. We still got surveillance we gotta do 'fore orn's end."

The cassettes solemnly acknowledged and quietly crept out the various secret exits to go and monitor their posts. The red and yellow Polyhexian knew it would be a long dark-cycle of cuddling to reaffirm the family's safety when his cassettes returned.

After a few kliks of silence a concealed trap-door in the floor began to open, slowly revealing the presence of another mech. Blaster rolled his optics at the theatrics. "It's safe up here ya know. No traps, no cameras, no listeners."

The door opened fully and a large, black, crimson, and gold femme stepped into the room.

"I haveta thank you for comin' when you did." the cassette-master addressed the femme. "I'm not sure how much longer we could have evaded those 'Cons."

The triplechanger nodded with concerned optics. "I hope the little ones were not too traumatized by it."

"They were a little shaken up, but there should not be any permanent damage, D.Q. So, not that I'm not grateful, but I can't believe ya came yourself. W.Q. must be really upset with you for breaking cover like that."

The black femme chuckled. "Are you kidding? I almost had to physically restrain Whitey from marching *himself down here to rescue your aft personally! The whole clade was in an uproar when we got that distress call. I had my pick of volunteers to save you."

Blaster let out a low whistle. "Really? Huh, wish I coulda seen that. It makes my spark feel full to think that our adopted clan cares about us so much."

"Always and forever." the Dark Queen assured him.

"So…" Blaster began mischeviously. "Which volunteers managed to threaten you enough ta get ta come? Ya'll had disappeared by tha time I got out of the vents so I didn't get to see who you brought with you."

"Well, you'll be proud, Chromia didn't even threaten, *he just gave everyone the evil-optic until they relented. The other, brace yourself now, was Firestar of all mecha."

"Wait, I thought *he hated all nonfemmes?!" the Polyhexian replied incredulously.

"*He has made an exception for you or at least that was the excuse *he gave us."

"Huh, will wonders never cease."

The black femme sighed, knowing that *he was about to break the comfortable atmosphere of camaraderie. The times when they could simply stop, drop the formality, and just spend time together as kin were so few and far between. Especially right now, when so many clade members were deployed on missions. "I'm sorry to disrupt the mood Blaster, but I have some things to tell you."

The cassette-master straightened attentively. "I'm all audials, go for it."

A slight grin answered his cheeky remark. "We just wanted to tell you that Phase Two has been initialized and to be ready with an excuse to leave your post an any given moment. We would also like you to tell Broadcast that, while his information was appreciated, it would have been more helpful to be notified about the assassination a little bit sooner."

"I'll tell him." Blaster snickered. "I'm sure he will have something snarky to deliver in his usual comic tone, like, 'No time, schedule severe'."

"I'm sure. Will the clade get to see you at the vornly reunion?" the Dark Queen asked while reopening the trap-door.

"If we can get away from base."

The triplechanger accepted the stipulation and disappeared through the hole in the floor.

Blaster settled back to wait quietly for his little partners to return. When the last cassette trooped in, exhausted from the tedious work on top of a harrowing orn, he gathered them to himself to rest. True to his earlier prediction they snuggled in around him, needing the physical assurance to recharge peacefully.

The long orn was at an end.


	9. The Femmes

The next orn dawned brightly it would be a good orn. Many Cybertronians subscribed to the superstition that an orn’s worth could be determined by the depth of light penetration during the Shadow Joor, the first joor of the light cycle. If the light of Binaura caused pale shadows it would be good, but if the twin stars’ light allowed deep shadows it was a bad omen, best to stay home lest harm befall the unwary.

On this orn the shadows were so thin as to be nearly nonexistent and everymech was looking forward to having a peaceful functioning for a while. In truth though, superstition is naught more than myth and wishful thinking, and only orn’s end can truly declare if it has been good or not.

For Blaster and his crew this orn would most certainly be an aberration from the expected.

When the fivesome roused from recharge they were met with an urgent notice that the largest of them had been promoted. This gave them pause to rejoice, at least one good thing had come of the previous orn’s bad experience Blaster was now the temporary head of the Communication Division with permanent appointment pending procurement of an equal physical rank, but regardless of his honorary status he was now officially listed as an officer. Entitled to all the privileges and responsibilities of one too. Including the Ornly Officers Meeting that would start in less than half a joor.

Frantically, Blaster leapt from the berth to give his plating a quick wipe down and rush about making himself presentable for his first official meeting. The cassettes sat on the berth chortling at their master’s distress until he finally fixed them with an unamused glare and shooed them out to get some energon. They complied, each giving him a congratulatory hug, and promising to drink a toast to his good fortune.

They laughed their way down the brightly lit halls to the nearest commissary , ambling in saucily and feeling like Primus himself was smiling down upon them. Or rather, up at them, since he was beneath their peds ensconced in the planet’s very center. Claiming their rations from the dispenser operators and splurging a bit on some mineral additives, the four miniature mechs settled at a small table to celebrate.

Before they could begin the first toast a mech from an adjacent table tapped Rewind on the shoulder. “Oy, drone, you need to remember your place and get quiet. Drones oughta be seen and not heard unless asking their master how they can serve.”

Eject glared at the mech who was insulting his brother, but one of the mech’s tablemates spoke before he could retort. “Yeah, speaking of serving, I could use a new cube. Yu there, quadruped, give me that ration.”

The new antagonist attempted to steal Ramhorn’s energon and nearly got his digits snapped off by Steeljaw’s denta. It was such a close call that some paint flecks could be see adorning the felinoid’s sharp canines.

“Ahh! That one tried to bite me! Their glitching!” the thwarted thief cried. The remainder of the table sprang up to encircle the defensive cassettes. The aggressors advanced on the bristling foursome, threatening them with dismantlement and smelting. The cassettes knew that even if they could not call Blaster for aid because of his meeting and just as they were preparing to shoot their way out, a loud voice cut through the chaos.

“Hey you big jerks! Leave them alone!”

::o0o::o0o::o0o::

The location the potential informant had chosen as a meeting place was giving Bumblebee the chills. He was not a flighted mech nor did he have any record of flight-based mecha in his lineage, but being thirty stories below the even the lowermost underground levels of the base was unnerving. They had been instructed to go to an isolated sector deep within the oldest catacombs of the ancient times and they were thankful for the detailed instructions after the first few kliks of traversing the labyrinthine tunnels.

Their destination though… was stunning. The last dark tunnel gave way to a large, brightly lit, cavernous room. Its smooth walls held inlaid panels of rare, colored metals in elegant swirling designs. Interspersed at even intervals were slender columns of multihued crystal that had somehow been trained to grow in twisting, curving shapes. Thin ropes of gold-colored electrum laced over and around the twists yielding a set of columns that resembled giant pieces of filigree jewelry.

The three Ops agents just stood in the doorway, completely frozen by the delicate display of riches unlike any seen since before Crystal City fell. Jazz looked back at Mirage to make sure he was alright. Of the three, he would be the most affected as a former Cityite and the saboteur felt bad for exposing him to this blatant reminder of what he had lost. The blue and white shook his helm, “I am fine, but… what is this place?”

“It was once the Court of Petition for the first Primes, now, it belongs to the femmes.” replied a soft voice that sounded as old as the room before them. The opsmechs spun to face the voice, instantly on guard. A tiny, almost minibot sized, turquoise femme disengaged from a shadow along the corridor and showed *himself to be unarmed. After proving that *he was not a threat the little mech motioned them into the great chamber. “I am Lithograph, the femmes historian. The others sent me to greet you as they were concerned that their more war-bound frame-mods would most-likely put you ill at ease.”

“So, it was one of you that contacted us?” asked Jazz.

Lithograph hesitated, “Yes.” *he finally answered shortly.

When they reached the center the femme bade them stay while *he continued on to the far side of the Court. *He opened a hidden compartment and removed a tiny bell and hammer. Lithograph struck the instrument twice, then twice again before replacing it back into its hiding place. The vibrations of the tiny chiming was picked up and amplified by the columns, each of which altered the sound to a different pitch until it became a joyously loud chorus of brilliant acoustics. As the last silvery chime dissipated through the room four of the whirl patterns spiraled open to disclose themselves as entry portals. Bumblebee glanced over his shoulder confirming to himself that their own entry had been through another such portal.

Through the open doors came several regiments-worth of femmes clustered together in an organizational pattern known only to themselves. Once all the mecha had entered and assembled according to their preferences, three panels in the floor slid away to allow a set of arced daises to rise up. Upon each dais were three ornate cathedra, each seat bore a different symbol, and they increased in size from exterior-most to center-most. A fifth portal behind the chairs opened and six more femmes stepped through, at this point the entire assembly went silent. The femmes took their assigned seats and Jazz did a double-take. Two of the apparent femme command element were identifiable as part of the group that had saved his and Blaster’s skidplates just yesterorn! He was beginning to think Blackshot was right, their presence had not been coincidence.

Mirage on the other servo was making notes on who sat where and compiling a probability assessment on the roles they each served in the command structure based on the symbol of their cathedra, their ranks were obvious, mostly. A rose-colored femme with wide helm spikes sat in the center, *his symbol greatly resembled a replica of the Matrix of Leadership and the blue spy easily concluded that *he was the primary leader. *His Second and Third held the chairs next, but as the cathedra were the same height telling which was which would be nigh on impossible. A powder-blue tank-former sat at the CO’s right, a sigil of crossed swords and blasters marking *his seat, probably the weapons specialist. A black triplechanger sat to the CO’s left, chair marked by an emblem that looked like a dagger with a traveler’s cloak wrapped around it and the hood draped over the dagger’s hilt, special operations most likely.

To the black femmes left was a purple and orange cannon-former, an image of a grid-mapped Cybertron adorned *his headrest and it puzzled Mirage as to its meaning so he left it for later determination. Next to the blue femme was a teal racer whose chair crest was a simple sniper’s crosshairs, another easy one, the chief sharpshooter. The last femme, a green medivac grounder, sat to the teal’s right and *his cathedra bore the symbol of a caduceus, obviously the head medical officer. The three empty cathedra held sigils of a felinoid imprinted shield, a stylized comm tower, and an old-fashioned key surrounded by stars respectively.

After the commanders had settled, the black triplechanger addressed the ops mechs. “Welcome, outsiders, to the Femme Stronghold. What are your designations and why have you come?”

The three knew they were being tested. There was no chance in the Pit that unknown, uninvestigated mecha would just be allowed to waltz uncontested into the midst of the femme assembly, much less have a personal escort sent to them. However, the agents did not take offense, in reverse positions they would have done much the same. Since Jazz was the appointed leader of the team the other two allowed him to speak for them. “Ah’m Jazz, medtech fo’ tha Autobots n’ special op’ration fo’ tha same. Tha yellow minibot ‘s Bumblebee, acquisitions specialist n’ spec ops infiltrator fo’ tha Autobots. Tha blue n’ white ‘s Mirage, former noble, Autobot special ops infiltrator n’ assassin. We’ve come b’cause we were giv’n a mission ta eliminate a spy wit’in our own ranks. We’ve not been able ta complete tha job b’cause all our leads keep peterin’ out. Ah was giv’n a message tha’ said if’n Ah came ‘ere Ah would be able ta get some help.”

“Oh? And you are willing to just put aside your pride as an operative for this?”

Jazz grimaced, Mirage flickered out of the visible spectrum for a moment, and Bumblebee just stared at his peds. “Yes sir, ta protect tha mecha in tha base ‘bove us Ah would be willin’ ta do almos’ anything’.”

“Almost?” the femms were looking at them critically and the black-plated speaker gazed upon them nearly predatorily.

“Mah commander ‘as warned us tha’ ya would require payment from us. He wants ta kno’ wha’ it is a’fore he grants us permission ta accept ya aid.”

The gathering appeared to have expected that answer and showed no discomfort over it. The triplechanger actually smiled and seemed to relax a bit. “Your commander is a wise mech, misguided by his predecessor’s prejudice, but overall, still a smart one.” Jazz cocked his helm at the combined compliment and insult, but the femme continued before he could comment. “Tell me, young Jazz, what do you know about femmes?”

The saboteur was puzzled for a moment over the odd subject change, but he figured that the big femme had to have some purpose for all of this. The only way to find out though, would be to keep playing along. “Well, tha femme frametype was firs’ created durin’ tha Quintesson occupation as a luxury item ta act as a guardian n’ instructah fo’ organic littles. It ‘as of’en been speculated tha’ tha new core-code was derived from selective fusing o’ minibot and n’ doorwinger code. Tha resultin’ mecha were known ta be loyal, highly protective tat ha point o’ bein’ willin’ ta kill, sneakeh, n’ real intelligent. They were given younglin’ specific codin’ tha’ would make ‘em put the littles safety above all else and the code encompassed the immature of all species. When tha revolution occurred tha femmes altered their mandate ta onleh apply ta Cybertronian sparklin’s n’ younglin’s n’ they’ve been tha protectors of our littles eva’ since. Durin’ Nova Prime’s tenure tha leadin’ scientists found tha’ tha femmes were dyin’ out due ta havin’ a less dominant spark-code than unaltered Cybertronians. Ta fix this Nova created sep’rate complexes fo’ tha femme population tha’ would keep ‘em apart from tha main populace n’ implemented a law tha’ femmes could onleh bond with others o’ their frametype. When Sentinel took charge o’ tha Matrix he repealed those laws b’cause it was discovered tha’ femme code skipped a generation if it didn’ show up in the first round o’ littles.”

The femme commanders nodded in approval.

“Very good, but there is more to that story…” the triplechanger paused. “Perhaps it would be best to show you first.”

*He motioned to the powder-blue femme, who rose and stepped over to stand directly in front of Jazz. “This is Chromia, *he is one of our best fighters and *he is going to try to strike you, please defend yourself.”

Jazz was confused, the conversation was bouncing all over the place, and now they expected him to just randomly spar with one of their officers for some unfathomable reason. Still, he was not going to just let the blue tank hit him and he took a defensive stance. Chromia smirked, set *himself, and came forward with a right cross that had the saboteur seeing stars. It was at this point that Jazz’s processors decided they had suffered enough and sent him into a nice, peaceful, femmeless reboot.

When he finally cycled back to consciousness his first thought was wow that hurt, his second thought was, why didn’t Ah dodge that?. As his memory core reengaged he played back the last few kliks. He had taken a defensive stance. The strike came, he remembered trying to dodge and counter, but his frame seized, forcing him to take the blow. Why did my frame do that? Jazz began searching through the subroutines that had been active at the moment of impact and deep, buried in the farthest recesses of his code was a priority tree as old as the Quintesson occupation.

His disbelief jarred his meta to full awareness and he finally registered where he was lying. The saboteur’s helm was being cradled gently in the lap of the blue femme while their CMO carefully reviewed his reboot for errors. The black femme who had been the orator thus far, was hovering over them all with concerned optics. Jazz’s audials finally reached the top of the boot queue and came online to hear the triplechanger reprimanding the tank. “’Mia, you have to be more careful! When I asked you to do this demonstration it was because I knew, or thought I knew, that you had self-control!”

“Ah didn’t hit ‘im that ‘ard, Sol. It was justa light tap!” Chromia replied.

Sol crossed *his arms, but before the argument could escalate the green medic intervened. “Chromia is correct. It was not a hard enough clout to have sent this mech into stasis. However, it was the wire that broke the transport’s struts. The Femme Protection Law conflicts with his Ops coding, couple that with the fact that he was becoming very frustrated with your nonanswers Solaris, and his systems were primed for a cleansing reboot. All it needed was a trigger.”

Deciding that now was a good time to alert them to his return to the land of the functioning, Jazz spoke, “Wha’ was tha’ code n’ how do Ah get rid o’ it?!”

The three femmes looked at him, startled by his question, but silently helped him to his peds. The black one, Solaris, guided him to a comfortable looking seat placed before the daises and Jazz noticed that Bumblebee and Mirage had been given chairs as well. Glancing about, the Polyhexian observed that the new informal air had spread room-wide. The femmes now lounged on plush cushions and pillows and had returned to their groups of chatter. The commanders smiled indulgently when they noticed the saboteur’s scrutiny, but gave no answer as they reseated themselves in their cathedra.

When the opsmechs were addressed again it was by the CMO, “The code that activated in you just now was a protective device installed by the Quintessons. They knew that we possessed intelligence and therefore the capacity to rebel. They were concerned that rogue Cybertronians might attempt to take their young hostage. They created us as bodyguards and then a priority tree sequence which prevents you from counterattacking or defending. Even without the code we were very effective youngling protectors which is why they began to sell our frametype. The sequence was inserted into the basic spark-coding and can not be removed.”

After the doctor finished *his delivery, the purple and orange cannonformer took up the conversation. “It was because of this that we were so strictly segregated during Nova Prime’s reign. He wanted us to become his assassins and when we rejected his warmongering ways he punished us with isolation.”

“So tha spark-code was just a cover-up?” asked Jazz.

“Yes. By the time Nova offlined, the specifics of our functioning had been lost to myth. When Sentinel came to power he felt that we were not serving our true purpose and decreed that femmes, while no longer bound to separation, could only serve in jobs that related to the care and upbringing of sparklings.” the cannonformer finished.

Jazz was very glad at that moment for his rigid training in facial control, for otherwise his jaw would have been on the floor. As it was his optic ridges were raised so high they had nearly recessed themselves into his helm, thankfully they were covered by his visor. Before he could formulate a reply however, the blue tank, Chromia, put in a comment. “That restriction was’a chafin’ shackle too. Sure, ‘ny of us’d give our sparks willingly to protect’a sparklin’, but that doesn’t mean that’s all we’re good fer. Alot’a us were data analysts, huntsmecha, dock coordinators, and the like. A few of us, like Phalanx,” *he pointed to the purple and orange who had just spoken. “an’ me, were warbuilds for Primus sake! But no! That’s not in our programming ‘parently. ‘Cording to Chinnimus Prime we were only good enough to watch the littles all orn long. Now, don’t get me wrong, taking care of bitlets for a livin’ is a rewarding and joyful functioning, but it should not be our only option.” *he finished emphatically.

“Okay,” Jazz said slowly as he finished saving and sorting all the new data. “So, where do we come in?”

The floor was turned back over to Solaris who answered, “Well as you suggested in the beginning, there is a price for our assistance and hopefully your commander will find it palatable. You see, after Optimus received the Matrix, he removed the function restrictions that regulated our frametype, but by that point mecha no longer remembered us as having any other talents. They do not remember that we were once one of the most formidable and ruthless groups of Cybertronians to ever be built. Therefore, when the war began in earnest we were discarded as ‘not up to snuff’ for the army. So, our deal is this, we will give you aid in catching the spies and in return we Special Operations to annex us as a subdivision. Our many talents and specialties would be of great benefit to you, all we ask is that we be allowed to maintain autonomy as a group with our triumvirate reporting to and receiving missions directly from Blackshot himself, or whoever is Ops Head at the time.”

The black and white Polyhexian sat back in his chair, the deal sounded pretty good to him but until Blackshot gave the ok, all Jazz could do was stall. “Alright, gimme a klik ta burst all tha’ ta mah boss n’ then we’ll see. Oh n’ while we wait, a question Ah kno he’ll ask, um, triumvirate?”

At this question the Supreme Commander of the femmes finally graced the chamber with the sound of *his voice. “Yes young Jazz. Femme culture has developed a specific hierarchy that is unique to our kind and was derived from the partial military coding that the Quintessons gave us. First, femmes always group in clades, similar to the host-mech clans that used to live in Polyhex. No matter where one of our frametype resides or works they always affiliate with their local clade. Members are rarely related to one another and if a femme relocates to another district they join that area’s femmes. Within each clade there is a nine mech ruling body and at the top is the triumvirate of Queens. The White Queen is the primary decision maker, equivalent to the Prime for normal mecha. I am this clade’s White Queen, I am ElitaOne. The Red Queen is the second in command and weapons master, for our group that is Chromia. The Black Queen is clade third and special operations commander. Due to the delicate nature of their secondary role, Black Queens have a sub-hierarchy amongst themselves that gives them rank when entering another’s territory.”

ElitaOne motioned to Solaris to take over this segment. “We Black Queens are ranked according to our stealth capabilities and assassination skills. The classifications are Haze, Mist, Dusk, Dark, and Shadow, respectively, with Shadow being the highest. Thanks to Megatron’s massacres only two of us remain. I am the Dark Queen and the third of the Praxian Clade is the Shadow Queen.”

*His portion finished, the black triplechanger settled deeper into the comfy depths of *his cathedra while ElitaOne continued. “Under the triumvirate serve six advisors. The Baduk, fourth in command and primary tactician, that is Phalanx’s position. The Punctum, the linguist and data analyst. The teal femme next to Chromia is Moonracer and *he fills this role as well as being our resident sniper. The Lance is the chief medic, ours, who you have already met, is Arclight. The Atari, the infiltrator and information gatherer; the Anchor, the communications specialist and contact for the Atari; and the Consular, who represents the clade in the public domain. Our Atari and his Anchor are not here at the moment and we have not had a Consular since Nova Prime.”

Jazz absorbed all this and transmitted it to Blackshot before making a response. “Ya kno, Ah’m wonderin’ why ya need us, cuz it sounds like ya been doin’ jus’ fine on ya own. So what’s changed?”

At a nod from Elita, Phalanx answered, “What has changed is the direction of this war. Our ability to gather or acquire sensitive information has always been superior, however our capability to disseminate the data to the Autobots has always been tenuous at best. Our few contacts within the faction disclose what we find as best they can, but the check system for unsecured data integrity makes it slow to reach the relevant audials. By the time most of our information is accepted and assimilated it is orns, if not decacycles, out of date. Mecha are dying out there because our intel is not counted as coming from a trusted source.

We also feel that if we were to have access to the vast network of Autobot intelligence we would be at least eighty-nine point four three seven two percent more effective. Our proposal would be of benefit to both our groups and hopefully might stem the advantage that the Decepticons seem to keep over us.”

Blackshot pinged Jazz’s commline and the saboteur opened it with his usual jaunty flair. -:-Hello, you have reached tha line o’ ‘Stuck in the Middle’, he is unavailable at tha moment so ya call is bein’ transferred ta his partner ‘Information Overload’ n’ his sidekick ‘Why Me’, please hold.-:-

-:-Very funny Jazz, now pay attention if you ever want Mr. Stuck to get out of there.-:-

-:-I’m all audials boss, whacha got fo’ meh?-:-

-:-The information they have given you checks out with the archives, so they’re on the level. Tell them we accept their request. I will have the dataforms ready at the conclusion of the mission, however, I would like some flexibility on the terms of command structure. If they would allow that part of the arrangement to be fluid until I can get some time to get the details set, and possibly tweaked a bit from their initial proposal, then you can seal the negotiations.-:-

-:-Will do boss-bot. See ya topside.-:-

-:-Of course ya hooligan.-:-

Jazz relayed his commander’s decision and the femmes were very willing to accommodate the black mech’s request. With the lengthy explanations and negotiations, what little there was of that, over, the femmes were ready to celebrate. They invited the three opsmechs to join them, more than one optic had passed its gaze over their plating and the opportunity to socialize with such handsome specimens would be taken advantage of. Two sets of optics and a visor met in silent deliberation, then looked out at the swarm of tantalizingly beautiful, super-rare, and oh-so-delicate mecha fairly begging them for their time, then looked back at one another.

Their decision took less than a nanoklik to make.

::o0o::o0o::o0o::

Very early in the next light cycle, the nearly empty halls bore witness to a very odd sight. Three mechs, still half drunk, stumbling down the corridor, arms wrapped about their companions’ shoulders, singing an old song about a mech coming home to his bondmate after a long absence. The trio swayed back and forth until they reached their quarters. Getting in took them a moment, being barely cognizant enough to remember the code. Slumping into and onto various furniture the comrades came to two conclusions: One, femmes were slagging good dancers, and Two, the highgrade they had procured from… somewhere, was the best they had tasted in vorns, regardless that it was the only highgrade they had consumed in vorns.

Ten kliks later they were all in recharge.

One joor later they all onlined to a very loud, to them, set of pings at their door. The noble reluctantly gathered his strength and activated his phase disruptor. The minibot covered his helm and begged the offender to leave him alone. The Polyhexian dragged his overcharged skidplates over to the door and triggered the release button.

Behind it stood a frantic Blaster, “Mech! Where have you been?! I have been pingin’ ya for ten kliks! We’re gonna be late ta our meetin’ if ya don’t get a move on!”

The black and white just stood there uncomprehendingly. His visor flickered on and off erratically as he tried to parse whatever message his friend was trying to get through the haze to him. Jazz’s condition finally registered in Blaster’s processor when the scent of too much highgrade wafted past, and the cassettemaster shrieked.

He grabbed the errant drunk and frog-marched him down the hall. All the while explaining that they had been promoted, they were now Chief and Sub-chief of Communications, they were going to be late to their very first meeting with High Command, Jazz was never allowed to drink again, and that he better like cold showers because there was not going to be enough time to let the solvent heat before the Polyhexian was washed. They turned the corner with Blaster still fussing about how he hoped Jazz liked processor aches because there was not time to stop in Medbay for a fix.

The door closed and the two remaining occupants sighed in relief. There was a short bout of debate over who would get their hangover cures and then a decidedly grumpy, yellow minibot went forth.

::o0o::o0o::o0o::

After getting his cure administered and taking another back for Mirage, Bumblebee felt much refreshed. His regained cheer needed to be shared so he ambled down to the nearest rec room to see if any of his friends were about.

When Bumblebee stepped in he noticed that the atmosphere felt… off. The room was full but no one was talking. Everyone’s optics were focused on a crowd near the back. The group appeared to be very agitated about something and the small opsmech crept closer to find out what. Half-way through the room and he could hear the mechs threatening someone with deactivation and a momentary parting of the crowd revealed four terrified, cornered cassettes.

The minibot froze in horror. He had been cultivating a friendship with the tiny mecha and the thought of them being bullied or threatened set off some very protective coding in the yellow mech. Determined to stop this injustice before it escalated further, Bumblebee amped up the output on his vocalizer and shouted, “Hey you big jerks! Leave them alone!”


	10. Highgrade and Revenge

“Leave them alone!”

Nine colossal heads turned to identify the interloper who would dare interfere with their fun. To their endless amusement it was a little yellow minibot. The ringleader’s mirth made him feel magnanimous so he did not flatten the brazen mech, yet. “Oh? And why should we? Are you planning to defend them minibot?”

Bumblebee drew himself up to his full height, which sadly was only barely to the shortest lugnut’s waist, and replied, “If I have to.”

The group of ruffians got so tickled by the thought of this tiny mech trying to do anything against them that they neglected to notice the mecha approaching to back up the brave mini.

“Indeed, it would be most unwise of you to further attempt to propagate this prejudice against diminutive individuals and should you continue your machinations I am afraid that chastisement will be your guerdon.” The entire gathering, minibot and cassettes included, stared at the new speaker, dumbfounded by the incomprehensible speech. They knew that his words were probably Cybertronian, but the meaning was lost upon them. The bullies guessed that it was most likely a series of geek-ified insults and chose to take offense. They began to encroach upon the smallish red mech’s personal space with much intended malice.

They froze however, when they noticed his companion. A grey and white mech with red and green accents adorned with a round blast mask and… glowing headfins. A spike of fear drove its way through their sparks completely nullifying all thoughts of defenseless drones, annoying minibots, or presumptuous nerds with overly large vocabularies. Instead, they could only focus on the Unamused™ visage of a seriously irritated Altihexian. An Altihexian that was known base-wide as Wheeljack, Master of Accidental Explosions and Chief Munitions Officer. Not someone to tangle with unless one wanted to lose a limb… or three.

Suddenly, picking on the little drones did not sound as fun as it had earlier. They made mumbled excuses about not really meaning anything by their actions and scurried off. The cassettes vented a collective sigh of relief and turned to thank the bigger mechs.

“Thanks for sticking up for us. Those glitch-helms can’t seem to get it through their processors that we aren’t drones and they are constantly picking at us.” said Steeljaw.

“That is preposterous,” exclaimed the red mech, a microscope barrel on his shoulder flexing its focusing lens in an expression of his outrage, “Your sentience is categorical as evidenced by your self preservation reaction to the persecution rather than the drone response of automatic compliance.”

Again, a round of blank stares greeted the science mech’s statement. Wheeljack however, was doubled over giggling at the communication breakdown. The red microscope realized he was not getting through and turned on the laughing engineer. “Wheeljack, translate.”

The Altihexian managed to calm his laughter down from the gasps it had devolved into and did as asked. “’E means ya willin’ness to fight fo’ ya’selves shows ya all got sparks.”

“Ooooh!” came the foursome chorus of understanding.

“Well why didn’t he just say that?” Rewind asked.

“He did,” answered Wheeljack. “Perceptor just doesn’t know how to speak without using multisyllabic words.”

Four more understanding nods. The cassettes then turned and thanked Bumblebee too. He looked down embarrassed and told them not to worry about it. Then something occurred to him and he looked at the bigger mechs. “Aren’t you two officers? Shouldn’t you be in the ornly meeting right now?”

Wheeljack looked chagrinned, “Yeah, but we were sent out to get energon for the meeting ‘cuz the dispensers in the officers’ lounge ‘r all broken.”

Perceptor, who had been sulking over the previous teasing, took this as an opportunity to get in a jab of his own. “They are ‘broken’, Wheeljack, because you concluded it would be a stupendous ponderation to postulate that the dispensors’ outputs could be aggrandized and used the actual devices in your verification instead of facsimiles.”

No one laughed, mostly because they could not understand what the scientist had said. The engineer could see Perceptor’s hurt and so he translated, thus outing himself. “He said that I tried to make the dispensers make moar ena’gon an’ they blew up.”

“Oh.” Again, understanding. The envisioned spectacle made them want to snigger, but these were officers, so they held their mirth in. After a few more moments of chatting, the five small mechs offered to help carry the loads of energon. The two officers gladly accepted and off the group went.

o0o::o0o::o0o

When Blaster saw his minimechs troop in carrying the staff’s energon his spark swelled with pride. They looked so adorable when they handed each officer a cube with a cheerful grin and greeting. He also got the nagging feeling that they were hiding something from him because there were moments where they seemed a bit too cheerful. Hmm… There would be words had later, for now he needed to focus on the meeting.

o0o::o0o::o0o

After dropping off the fuel, Bumblebee escorted the cassettes back to their quarters just to make sure there would be no more bullying attempts. When they arrived at the door they thanked him again and the minibot took the opportunity to make a suggestion that had been percolating in his meta since the bullies ran off. “Hey, I’m not sure if it would be something you’re interested in, but I have a plan of revenge that might teach those fraggers to check for sentience before acting foolish.”

The predatory grins would have made even the most hardened Decepticon quake.

o0o::o0o::o0o

The Meeting from the Pit was finally… over. Perhaps if Jazz were slightly less overcharged he would not have minded so much, but then he would recall the sermon-monologue that served as Prowl’s status report. Yeah, it was a bad meeting all around. Someone really needed to vet that mech’s speeches before he accidentally bored the masses to deactivation. Keeping to the facts was one thing, droning on until mecha were contemplating ripping out their audial assemblies was just cruel and sparkless. Thus Sayeth Jazz the Overcharged.

However, now that the mandatory ornly torture session was over, the Polyhexian was headed straight to Medbay for an overcharge fix. Then he was going to go to a stint in Comms with his favorite music mix blasting in the background for therapy.

It was during this ‘therapy’ that Jazz found his mind drifting back once more to the black and white winger. He remembered that the first time he saw the Praxian up close it had crossed through his processor that black and white really set off a doorwinged frame in a rather sexy way. His voice was nice to listen to as well, it had this midrange bass resonance that could give rise to all sorts of nice thoughts, until one actually listened to what Prowl was saying. The sheer dryness of the spoken content could shatter even the most hard-core voice addict’s fantasies, and all without even the slightest effort on the tactician’s part.

It was rather sad, Jazz thought, Prowl was doorwinger yumminess with the voice of a god, but his complete lack of visible personality, or even emotion, ruined all that entirely. The mech really needed to get out of his office for some social development. This thought reminded him that he had never finished implementing his plan to loosen up the stick-afted SIC. Well… He would just have to remedy that. He had plenty of time now, what with Comms being far less labor intensive than Medical and the femmes aiding his investigation. Jazz now had enough processor space to designate a few threads to the stiff Praxian.

He would contemplate his options for the rest of his shift.

o0o::o0o::o0o

::Have you acquainted yourself with the target yet?::

::He was sucked into an Officer’s meeting first thing and then he was in Comms for the remainder of the orn. I am staking out his usual commissary now and I will attract his notice when he comes for his dark-cycle energon.::

::Very well, we need to hurry though, Lord Megatron does not do well with unnecessary delays.::

::Someone should have told Soundwave that, it’s his fault after all.::

::Yes, well, nothing that can be done about that now… Good luck my love.::

::Thanks, I love you too.::

o0o::o0o::o0o

Highgrade burned off quickly. Despite its ultra refined nature it was low density and artificially supercharged. It took roughly six highgrades to equal the mass of a single midgrade, which meant a mech’s systems were actually processing less energon despite the increased cube consumption. Also the extra charge made it impossible for the excess energy to be stored in the reserves. This was the cause of the ‘overcharged’ state that most drunks suffered from and also for the hyperactive, happy feeling that made drinking so enjoyable. However, when the charge wore off, the affected mech’s body did not get the memo right away and would begin to burn through the reserves at an accelerated rate to maintain the previous level of energy. The final result would be an exhausted, extremely hungry mech who felt like a steamroller had just passed over him.

To all of this Jazz could attest its truth.

He hurt.

He was tired.

And if he did not get a cube soon he might vamp someone.

It was for this reason that Jazz forewent trudging to usual rec room over by Medical and slogged his way to nearer one next to Tactical. The short jaunt was uneventful and the line at the dispensers was short. The Polyhexian took his ration to-go and retreated to his room.

There was another data crystal on his berth.

During the celebration yesterorn he had found himself in the company of Solaris for the majority of its duration. Trough their conversation Jazz had discovered that the triplechanger had a very dry, devious sense of humor and a penchant for theatrics. In *his own words, “If you can distract your enemy with a flare of overdramatics then he will place his focus on you and not notice when your partner fleeces him clean.”

And this entire enterprise of leaving datacrystals embedded with cryptic messages lying in obviously out of place locations, definitely fell into that category. Peeved that Solaris was able to bypass his room’s security so easily, the saboteur ignored the crystal. Instead, he checked in with his teammates. “Yo ‘Bee, Ah heard ya nearleh got run ova’ by some goons in tha rec room earleh this light-cycle.”

The minibot rolled his optics and generously shared an exasperated grimace. “Yeah, a bunch of the frontliners and gunners were picking on the cassettes. No one else was stepping up for them so, I did.”

“Ya weren’t worried ‘bout blowin’ ya cover?”

“At that moment, no. All I could see were their scared faces and all I could think about was protecting them at all costs. They were so terrified, the big mechs were telling them that they would be pulled apart and smelted slowly until their spark chambers ruptured. How could I not step in? The cassettes are barely second stage younglings and they were being told that they would be tortured to death for the crime of refusing to allow the bigger mecha to steal their energon!”

Jazz’s face became very dark. “Were tha soldiers serious ‘bout their threats?”

Bumblebee recognized the look on his leader’s faceplates and silently approved of the fate that would soon overtake the errant mecha. “Yes sir, they were. If questioned, they will undoubtedly insist that they thought the cassettes were drones, but they kept referencing to the little mechs’ sparks. Those heavies knew what they were doing.”

“Then they will be dealt wit’.”

Bumblebee took satisfaction in that resolute statement, but then he remembered what he had discussed with the cassettes earlier. “Um, maybe give us a few orns before you do that. The bitty mechs and I have plans for them first.”

Jazz grinned, his lighter side coming to the fore. “Oh? N’ ya gonna share these unholy designs wit’ ya eva’ fait’ful leader?”

Bumblebee just grinned back.

The saboteur shook his helm and changed the subject. “So, where’s ‘Raj? Ah haven’t been able ta see ‘im yet this orn for an update, usually he’s here by now.”

The yellow minibot’s optics suddenly became sparkly with mischief. “Our dear noble had finally stepped off of his pedestal and made peace with ‘the Green One.’ They have spent the last orn getting to know one another via comm an their conversations have become downright friendly, if you take my meaning.”

“Oh really?” replied the Polyhexian, his own countenance showing his utter enjoyment of this development. “Well, we’ll jus’ haveta give’em a nudge now n’ then ta keep ‘em goin’ in tha right direction. Ah think they both deserve som happiness n’ if they c’n find tha’ wit’ each otha’ then its all good.”

“I agree. So, are you ever going to look at that data crystal? I have been waiting for over a joor for you to get back and open that thing.”

Jazz looked down and considered whether he had pouted long enough. Deciding he had and that propriety was satisfied, he loaded the crystal into a spare pad. Thankfully, the message was very simple and not the series of riddles that the last had been. It read, -:-As promised, all the information we possess is being turned over to you for your investigation. However, we felt that this would still not be enough, so we cleared it through Blackshot to have one of our mecha added to your team. This addition possesses unique skills that will be useful to your mission, and since he is our Anchor, he is also a direct line to our information network. He will arrive at your quarters on the mark of the fourth joor of the dark-cycle. –Solaris, the Dark Queen.-:-

Jazz looked up and Bumblebee was staring at him expectantly. The saboteur started giggling, the minibot looked like he was sitting on cogs and ball-bearings with the way he was struggling not to fidget.

“Well?” the little Iaconian demanded impatiently.

When Jazz managed to stifle his snickers, he relayed the message, “They’re assignin’ a femme directly to tha team. *He’ll be here in’a few kliks.”

“What!” Bumblebee exclaimed, “But the room’s a mess!”

The yellow mech immediately jumped up and began to scurry around cleaning up the mess the three of them had left during their overcharged entry that morning. He stopped after a moment and glared at his leader, “Come on! We have to get this place cleaned up. First impressions are everything and we can’t have our new member thinking we’re slobs, they’ll lose respect for us!”

Jazz started chuckling again, but dutifully helped clean. Mirage showed up a short time later and was railroaded into picking up too by the Taskmaster Mini. It was a good thing too, for as the last item was put away the doorchime range. The Central Cityite and the Iaconian arranged themselves around the room trying to affect an air of nonchalance and professionalism while the Polyhexian rolled his unseen optics.

“Are we settled?” Jazz asked. Twin nods answered him so he opened the door.


	11. Prank Not, Lest Ye Be Pranked

Jazz opened the door to see Blaster standing on the other side. “Um, hey mah mech, whacha need?”

He had to get rid of his friend, and fast. The femme representative would be there soon and he did not want to have to explain that to his best friend. Behind him he sensed Mirage flicking on his disruptor.

“Hey Jazz, can I come in?” Blaster asked, and why did he look so nervous about it?  
Puzzled, but realizing that something terrible had to have happened for the cassette-master to be acting this way, the saboteur motioned the other in. Hopefully the femme would be late.

The red and yellow commsmech entered and sat gingerly on the berth. Jazz sat with him and placed a comforting servo on his shoulder. “Blasta’, wha’s wrong mah mech, ya don’ seem right.”

The other Polyhexian vented deeply, “Sorreh mah friend, I’m just a little nervous. Um, well, there’s no easy way to say this, but, I’m not who ya think I am.”

Jazz removed his servo and regarded Blaster warily, while across the room Bumblebee prepared himself for a potential attack. Desk jockey the host-mech might have been, but he was still a trained soldier with four, just as highly trained, cassettes that he could deploy with a single thought.

“What do ya mean?”

Blaster stared into his visor for a moment as he gathered his courage, but found he could not look the black and white in the optics while he confessed. “I’m tha Femme Contingent’s Anchor.”

The three opsmecha just stared in a state of stupefaction. Mirage’s shock caused him to ripple back into the visible spectrum but the cassette-master did not appear consternated by it.

Jazz’s processor was racing. On the one servo, he could understand why Blaster had kept this from him. After all, he himself had not told his best friend he was really an ops agent. However, on the other servo, he was just a bit irrationally hurt that the hostmech was afraid to tell him until he had been practically ordered to do so. Of course, then the doubts began to set in. Did Blaster befriend him just because of his mission? Was the music-loving, jokester, snarky, all-around fun mech the real Blaster? Jazz really wanted to express these fears, but the saboteur knew he had responsibilities at the moment that did not include angsting over a potentially false friendship. Instead, he had to appear cool, unphased, professional… he really hated his right now. Jazz plastered a grin on his faceplates and managed to appear, at least, mostly unaffected. “Well, tha’ll make things easieh. We already have a great rapport ‘tween us, so it’ll be less diff’cult ta int’grate ya inta tha team.”

Blaster was noth fooled, the black and white was practically oozing anxiety. Anyone who did not know Jazz would be unable to tell, but the cassette-master was empathetically tuned to his best friend. “Jazz, stop worryin’. We are still friends, an’ nothin’, not even mah mission, will change that.”

“Ah’m not worried.”

“Yes ya are. I can see it.”

Jazz held his façade for a long moment, then waffled. “Ah’m jus’ wonderin’ if ya really became mah friend cuz ya wanted ta or jus’ cuz ya had ta, n’ if it was tha real ya, n’ whether we’ll still be friends when this is ova’ or will Ah have ta fin’ a new best friend.”

The communications officer felt his spark ache as he listened to his counterpart pour out his fears. After he was sure the saboteur was finished, he spoke. “It is true that I acquainted mahself with ya because it was part of mah mission, however, it was never supposed ta go beyond acquaintanceship. Tha intent was for us ta have a connection of commonality ta make you feel more comfortable when, an’ if, we got ta this point in mah assignment. Tha personal connection that we made was never supposed ta happen, but I’m glad it did. You are my best friend, someone I would be, an’ am, proud ta call my brother. An’ yes, it has been tha real me this whole time. I am tha Anchor, an’ like tha Atari I have formal trainin’ in character alteration. However, tha White Queen felt it would be better in the long run if I were ta be mah normal self rather than a false personality since tha Autobots were intended ta be our allies.”

Blaster paused in his explanation to cock an optic ridge at Jazz with a distinct pot-calling-kettle-black grin. “An’ you know, I could conversely be asking you tha same. Is this ‘Jazz’ tha real you?”

“Yes, this is tha real meh, Ah onleh use a diff’rent persona when Ah’m infiltratin’ tha ‘Cons.” Jazz answered sheepishly. “’N while Ah understan’ here,” he said pointing to his processor, “Here jus’ don’ wanna coop’rate.” he finished, indicating his spark.

“Unfortunately, only time can help with that.” the hostmech sighed. “Will ya be ok ta discuss tha information I brought?”

This time the saboteur’s smile was genuine. “Ah don’ kno’, Ah might need some mini-mech comfort first.”

The four resulting clangs to the front of Blaster’s chestplate set him to snickering. “I think we can handle that.”

The cassettes burst from their master’s docking bay with delighted urgency. Steeljaw and Ramhorn cuddled up into the visored Polyhexian’s lap with much exaggerated purring and authentic happiness. The half-sized minis had come to recognize Jazz as someone they could trust and they had been just as worried as their host that they might lose one of their too few genuine friends.

The little twins, though just as ecstatic as the others, were too hyped up to do more than give Jazz a quick, loving hug before hopping off the berth to pull some games from their subspaces. They scurried under the bunk to play behind their creator’s and Jazz’s pedes, but every so often one of them would reach out to pet the nearest leg-strut to reassure the bogger mechs that they did care.

“Now then, shall we look at that data?”

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

He hated drones. The malicious little sparkless ones were untrustworthy. Of course, he knew that they were not really drones but he just could not count them as full mecha either. Their nebulous position in-between made him uneasy and he was automatically hostile towards anything that made him feel unsure. That was why he and his gunnery crew had joined with the frontliners to pick at the tiny menaces yesterorn. It was a defense mechanism to attack what he did not understand and as the leader of his compadres he set the standard.

Of course, being reprimanded by that weakling science mech had not helped his powerbase and the officers’ interference had given the small almost-drones courage.

Courage that he, Backbite, team chieftain of the lead gun battery, got to joyfully discover when he roused from recharge this light-cycle.

Rattle, rattle, klink, tink. Rattle, rattle, klink, tink.

The loud sounds of the tiny ball-bearings inserted into his joints followed him all through his shift, and as if that was not humiliating enough, the audacious blighters had also attached a mechanism to the interior of his posterior that made a backfiring noise every time he sat down. It was mortifying! Especially since it chose to manifest itself during the quarter-vornly armaments inspection by the ENTIRE SLAGGING HIGH COMMAND!

The raised optics ridges Backbite received were quelling enough, but the glacial look of that was not proper protocol for addressing respect to a senior officer that Commander Prowl cast his way, made his insides freeze in horror. Optimus Prime however, being a gracious, forgiving Prime, waved off the incident in favor of continuing the inspection. That was the worst incident, but for the remainder of that shift he was subjected to hidden tittering whenever his back was turned and looks of held-in laughter when he twisted to look, as every shift or movement of his seated pelvic struts gave rise to another set of spontaneous eruptions.

He was heading straight to Medbay to have the infernal things removed. When he was finished, Backbite was going to find those cassettes and dismember them… slowly.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

::Have you spoken to the target yet?::

::No. He went to a different refectory last dark-cycle.::

:: … ::

::I… I have a plan though!::

::Oh really. Is it better than your last one? Because Soundwave is going to initialize the termination order if we continue to show ourselves as incompetent.::

::I can’t control the choices of another mech!... I’m trying, really. The security breach at the Comms Deck has made Command jittery and they sent down orders tohave bodyguards assigned to the walkposts inside the Deck. Since us frontliners tend to get anxious when we have nothing to do, we were offered first choice to the postings. Command probably figure it would keep us out of trouble.::

::Well? Did you volunteer?::

::Yeah. Why would I mention this if I had not?::

::Because… *sigh*, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t mess this up, because if you do…::

::I know, I know, our creation… It won’t happen so it’s not worth thinking about.::

::I love you.::

::frame and spark, my love.::

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

To the casual observer the Communications Deck would appear to be the most boring detail in the history of military assignments. The room was set in the base of the circular Signal Tower and reflected its shape except for the corridor side which was flat. There were no windows. Because the tower was mobile the entry to the Deck could be accessed from any number of levels as the tower was raised or lower depending on the weather or attack. The interior was lined with massive decryption computers along the curved wall. These computers would take in the comm signals from the powerful receivers and use complicated algorithms to render them understandable. However, the computers had a secondary application. The signal antennae were strong enough to capture Decepticon signals in their raw format, but without the encryption codes they sounded like static and whines. Over half of the computers’ processing software was dedicated to breaking those codes, and because of the extreme difficulty of the task they were augmented with the intelligence and skill of the communications officers. The commsmecha would spend the majority of their shifts plugged in to the great machines to lend their creativity, and ability to see illogic, to the stolid, sparkless computers.

The exterior of the tower was enhanced with auxiliary shielding to protect these valuable resources. However, as proved a few orns earlier, the interior was far less protected. So, the ground troops received new orders, ‘Protect the Communications Division.’ Now, normal guards would have been stationed outside the location they were posted to, but in this case, thanks to the periscope action of the tower, that would mean the guardsmecha would spend most of their time dashing from floor to floor to stay in front of the entrance. Since this was highly inefficient, and Prowl’s position on inefficiency could fill several libraries of datapads, the guards were stationed inside the Comms Deck.

Unfortunately, this protective presence did not reassure either Jazz or Blaster. The femme intel indicated that one of the frontliners was the go-between for the information leak, and logically, since the old sender had been eliminated, the spy would be looking for a new outlet for the garnered information. The simplest way for the mole to do that would be to volunteer for the guardpost. So the two of them were stuck… in a sealed room… with a potential sleeper agent…, Scrap.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

The two Polyhexians sat silently at a table near the back of the cafeteria where privacy was at least marginally higher. They stared intently at their rations, appearing to worn out to even talk. The ops-grade, triple-encrypted, shortwave, low frequency, private commline they shared however, was buzzing like a boltbee hive.

-:-What’re tha chances, ya think, tha’ one o’ tha new guards’re our mech?-:-

-:-I’d say extremely high if tha furtive glances that blue frontliner was giving ya were anything ta go by. He was sizing you up for a gullibility rating.-:-

-:-Ya think so?-:-

-:-I know ya saw him so don’t play dumb with meh.-:-

-:- *snicker* Yer right. Ah did notice n’ Ah’m thinkin’ Ah might return a few o’ ‘em next time, see ifn’ he’ll act on a lil’ encouracement.-:-

-:-Sounds good. If this mech is our plant then it could lead us ta his partner eventually, if ya are ‘romantically’ involved enough ta be brought inta their inner circle.-:-

-:- Ya’ll’s intelligence still indicatin’ tha’ our spymechs’re bonded?-:-

-:-Yes, our inside agent has confirmed it, an’ really, it is tha only logical conclusion for how they’re transferrin’ it without meetin’ up or using our commlines.-:-

-:-Well, then Ah’ll be sure ta flash mah optics real pretty n’ see where it takes us.-:-

With their business concluded, Blaster deigned to lean back and regard his friend with a contemplative optic. “So, something happened yesterorn ta tha cassettes, but they refuse ta say anythin’ about it except that it’s bein’ handled. You wouldn’t know anythin’ about that, now would ya?”

Jazz had the grace to studiously observe that the ceiling was a solid piece of synthcrete instead of separate panels like the paintjob suggested. When a few awkward kliks had passed the saboteur caved to the inevitable, that the cassette-master was not going to give this topic up. “Ah do kno’ wha’s happened, but Ah’ve been sworn ta secrecy. Bee’s involved, but he won’ tell meh on account o’ plaus’ble deniability. He n’ ya littles have cooked up somethin’ good, ‘cuz they’ve had slag-eatin’ grins on all orn.”

Blaster crossed his arms.

“They promised ta share vidfiles when it’s done?” Jazz offered tentatively.

The hostmech looked slightly mollified but still did not uncross his arms.

Jazz sighed, “Look even if ya get wha’ happened out o’ them, their jus’ gonna tell ya not ta mess wit’ it. Ah tol’ ‘Bee Ah was gonna deal wit’ it n’ he begged meh not ta do anythin’ until they got their kicks in. So, jus’ wait fo’ them ta do wha’ they feel they gotta n’ then ya c’n help meh wit’ the real punishment.”

The red and yellow mech’s irritated visage melted into something more friendly. “I ‘spose. As long as mah littled are not in any danger.”

“Mah mech, Bee’ll look out fo’ ‘em, so relax.” the saboteur replied as he drained his cube. “Now, le’s get some shut-optic, it’s gonna be a long orn tomorrow.”

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

Backbite fidgeted on his chair, mortified, and more than a little fearful, as Commander Prowl ranted at him in that icy, almost inflectionless tone, upon the regulations regarding proper decorum. Sadly, the Commander was on such a roll that the gunner could not get in a statement of defense. If the SIC would only give him a moment, then Backbite would explain how this was neither intended nor done by his own servo.

The poor mech had come out of recharge that orn to a most horrifying sight. His entire frame had been painted pink with bold lavender contrasts and light yellow highlights. The drones had repainted him with such attention to detail that to the outside observer it looked like he had gotten a true repaint. To compound that, on his way to the Medical Wing’s paint lab he received a basewide alert that a potentially deadly contaminant had been found in the paint supplies and all the color stock was in quarantine until the infected canisters could be isolated. So, Backbite had been stuck with a color scheme that even the gaudiest of mecha would have rejected.

It had also brought on some really awkward attention. Several times mechs had approached Backbite, tried to proposition him, and then become angry when he repulsed them. Most had stormed away with comments that he should not offer if he had no intentions of following through. It had left him confused, and even more angry at the pranking half-bits.

Backbite had only been on shift for a joor when he was called to the SIC’s office to address his paintjob, which puzzled him since a change of colors was did not seem like something that would be against regulations. It became even stranger the longer the Commander lectured. The mech kept making odd statements, like, “I am aware that credits and energon are in short supply, but putting yourself out like this is neither the proper response nor an appropriate gesture for this army.”

Commander Prowl’s scolding was winding down now, so perhaps the gunner could get some answers on what was going on.

“So, what do you have to say for yourself?” the icy blue optics pierced him as if to delve into his processor with his very gaze and pluck the answer straight from his meta.

“Commander, sir, I don’t understand? How is my paint color against regulations?” came the tentative objection.

If anything, Prowl seemed to sit even straighter and his doorwings flared minutely. “Your color is not the problem, soldier, it is the prostibot advertisement on your back!”

“Th-the what?!” Backbite replied in a horrified whisper.

“Do you pretend then, to not know what is written on your own armor?”

“Sir, no… I… I did not do this. I am being pranked by those drones. This… I would never become a prostibot!”

The Praxian’s optic ridges furrowed. “The cleaning drones are not capable of independent thought. Your excuse is poorly constructed in the face of logical fact and an insult to my intelligence. Would you care to attempt the truth now?”

“No sir, not the maintenance drones, the mecha-like ones that Polyhexian host carries around!”

Prowl paused for a moment in confusion. “Those are not drones, they are cassettes.”

“Cassettes, drones, it makes no difference since neither of them got sparks.” Backbite replied mulishly.

Prowl’s optics flared in surprise and his battlecomputer immediately began making some disturbing suggestions about this entire situation. As a tactician however, he was not wont to play all his reserves at once, so he feigned ignorance. “So, your claim to defense if that the cassettes, who are sparkless drones, repainted you?”

“Yessir.”

“Why?”

“I-I don’t know sir, but I’m not the only one they’ve bee targeting. For some reason they have fixated on my unit and the others have suffered from the antics of the drones as well.”

“And you have no clues as to why your unit has been singled out?”

“None sir, except for maybe… Well, we sit near their chosen table at the commissary, so, familiarity and accessibility?”

The SIC’s gaze relaxed slightly. “I see. Very well then, you are free to go, and I would suggest that your first stop be the Medbay for a stripping.”

“What about the contaminants?”

“What contaminants?” Prowl’s wings flicked in confusion.

“The basewide bulletin this orning stated that the color supply had been quarantined for planted contaminants…” Backbite was bewildered that the Commander would not already know about such a potentially dangerous situation. Then, the truth dawned on him. “There was no bulletin this orning, was there.”

Prowl’s optics showed signs of sympathy. “No soldier, there was not. Mark it off as the culmination of the prank, and rest assured that I will be investigation the unprovoked vindictiveness of the cassettes in regards to your unit.”

Backbite smiled in revenge-happy delight. “Thank you sir.”

“Dismissed.”

The gunner turned on his stabilizer and marched from the office to finally rid himself of the humiliating prank. After he left, Prowl leaned back, servos steepled under his chin, to consider the problem before him.


	12. Investigation's End

After the introductory meeting for Jazz and Blaster it was decided that only one of them would need to attend the ornly meeting, at least until the new comms team arrived. With only a handful of novice commsmecha it was necessary for one of the Polyhexians to remain in the Deck at all times during the orn. They had a single midlevel commsmech who ran the dark-cycle shifts so the two senior experts could get some recharge.

It was Jazz’s turn on Deck and he was enjoying some light banter with a fellow commsmech at the Tyger Pax base. In reality he was actually downloading a series of sensitive datatransfers on a subfrequency under their signal, their chatter was just the cover. This was a new technique that Blaster had suggested since normal datatransfers were a virtual lit sign telling the ‘Con listeners that something was going on. Even if they could not decipher the message the purple-marked mecha would often make a retaliatory strike against any outlying bases to try and plug potential data feeders.

This problem was also a boon in that it worked in reverse as well. Though not knowing the Deepticon code scramblers, the Autobots could still detect when information was being passed and from where. This was how they detected Rapidburst, who had been completely unaware that Autobot transmissions were monitored by SpecOps in the same manner that Comms did the Decepticons.

After the transmission ended Jazz gave a little stretch to get the kinks out of his spinal struts. As he leaned back he caught sight of the blue guardsmecha looking at him again, so he gave him a wink. The mech jumped a bit at being caught, but returned a shy smile. 

Step One complete, giving the suspected spy favorable responses. On to Step Two.

The ops team, plus one, had sat down in the privacy of their quarters the last dark-cycle and processor-stormed over how to tempt their potential spy into making a move beyond a few appraising glances. Blaster had joked about feeling underappreciated for not being the target chosen. He was just as friendly and, according to himself, way more handsome than the saboteur. In reality though, they all knew why Jazz had been selected over Blaster, or even the commsmecha being transferred in. One, Blaster was the new bossmech and to try and subvert him would be foolish on far too many levels. Jazz on the other servo, despite being second-in-command, had started out as a glorified nursemech and was therefore more likely to be amiable to a conversion whilst also possessing enough rank to ensure any transmissions could be sent undetected. Second, Blaster had cassettes which, if believed as sparked, would have to be wooed as well, or, if not considered sparked, would be a risk for recording incriminating data unknowingly. Third, Jazz was a low level Polyhexian and was considered easily persuaded, like so many other former gutter mecha. Blaster though, was a hostmech, a member of the middleclass, and his type had been known for loyalty to the Prime. Blaster accepted these facts but still made sure to get in a few friendly jabs.

The team’s most important deliberation had been to decide how far the temptation was to be taken. Jazz was no stranger to interfacing and knew that such acts were sometimes an element of ops, however, they typically tried to keep it at the level of tactical stimulation. The concern was that such a shallow intimacy, which would have been expected among the Decepticons, would become suspicious to an ‘Autobot’ who would normally be trusted enough for more. The alternative though, was an extremely high risk. For a true interface the visored Polyhexian would have to lower the shielding over his spark and open the chamber. Disregarding even the emotional scarring that Jazz would suffer, this would put him in too vulnerable a position.

Two joors of debate and they still could not come up with a solution. It had actually been little Rewind who proposed a viable alternative. He and Eject laid out a meticulous design for beguilement that was so detailed and perfect it stunned the rest of the team.

It would be easy, simplistic, and foolproof. That is, if everything went off without a glitch. And the opsmecha were well aware that no plan survived first contact with the enemy. However, the team would try their best, and hope for at least a near optimal outcome. Which was why Jazz was currently trading flirtatious glances with a potentially amorous blue guardsmech and priming the gate for later entry.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

Prowl was ready to complete his investigation. It had taken him a full four orns to compile the security footage, discreetly track down the witnesses, and then cross-reference everything for accuracy. Now, there was only one thing left to do. Confront the perpetrators. He had called them to his office out of the desire to keep the matter private, rather than the more public venure of the brig’s Judiciary chambers.

A buzz at the door indicated his quarry’s arrival. He waited a full fifteen nanokliks before opening the door and remained completely silent as the nervous foursome entered. Their worried host could be seen just beyond the door, wringing his servos and pacing. Prowl’s orders had been very specific to indicate that the cassettes were not to be accompanied by their creator into the meeting itself, but he would not begrudge the near-frantic mech his proximity.

The SIC had set out four chairs so that each mech could be comfortable, but, in a sign of just how distressed they were, the cassettes all huddled together on one of the middle seats.

When they were settled Prowl turned on the holographic projector and began to cycle it through a set of images. Backbite in his lurid pink paint. A close-up of the prostibot advertising stating the prices for a number of interfacing techniques, including the Kaon Special. A pair of frontliners with their torso armor removed and the phrase “Shock me good baby” painted on their abdomens. A triad of artillery mecha whose paint had been switched to resemble the Decepticon Command Trine, clip-on wings included. This photo also had an attached sound clip to reveal that the Starscream wannabe had also had his vocalizer changed to match. The pictures went on and on, every bit of retaliation they had dared distribute, every instance of revenge, all laid out before them like the damning evidence it was.

The cassettes shrank down upon their seat. They had not thought that a few pranks would be severe enough to garner any attention from the command element, but apparently the SIC felt differently. They knew that since no one considered them to be sparked that they would not be receiving a fair trial.

After the imagery had run through a complete circuit Prowl addressed the cowering foursome. “It has been brought to my attention that a group of our frontliners and artillery mecha have been singled out to be the recipient of a series of distasteful pranks. According to the collective testimonies of these mecha, you four are the perpetrators. Would you care to defend yourselves against these accusations?”

The cassettes shook their helms. Commander Prowl would not have called them in if he was not in possession of conclusive evidence, which meant it was pointless to deny it.

The Tactician nodded. “Very well, in light of your willingness to admit guilt, you shall be given your choice of punishments. You may either apologize to the mecha you pranked and receive no further disciplinary action, or you may give restitution in the form of community service. Said service will be the cleaning, organizing, and relabeling of all the contents of both paint storage rooms. Choose.”

The cassettes narrowed their optics, the punishments were too light. What angle was the Commander trying to play? If he was aiming for their servitude in exchange for looking the other was then he had another think coming. Still, given the choice they would rather not have to apologize to the afthelms. Especially since it would be neither sincerely given nor received. “Sir, we choose community service.”

“Duly noted. Since none of you have yet to reach your majority, and this is a first time offense, this will not go on your permanent record. However, should your schemes continue there will be marks counted against you.” The SIC gave them a stern glare to reinforce the statement. “Now then, on to the next matter of importance.”

The projector cam to life again presenting a new group of pictures. The cassettes being shoved into a wall by a group of passing frontliners; a gunner holding an energon cube up in the air while Eject leapt up to reach it; another image of that same situation showing the other cassettes grouped around their own cubes unable to aid their brother because of their own harassers; Steeljaw being forced to wear a collar and leash; a vid clip of Steeljaw being booted down the hall for a ‘walk’; the twins being held down while some frontliners removed all their armor save their sparkplates; the twins being forced to serve the rec room occupants like slaves while still in only their protoforms. The pictures and vid clips in this loop were numerous and each one made the mechlets cringe. When the images began to repeat what they showed, despite the differing date stamps, Prowl turned off the imager.

The cassettes had sunk so low in their seat that they were nearly flat upon it. They could not fathom why the Commander felt it necessary to remind them of their humiliations, but they wished he would not have. This saddened Prowl. Although he knew the type of reputation he possessed among the common soldiers was one of an extreme stickler for the rules, he had still hoped that his notoriety as a thorough and fair investigator would be a comfort to the small mechs. Instead, they seemed to expect him to treat them as poorly as their tormentors. He gazed at them with a calculating expression and revealed his true purpose for this small confrontation. “I am not wont to believe that any action is without cause, and so, when I investigated the pranks I also researched why they occurred. I was going through the pertinent security footage when I found these. I questioned a few of the bystanders to discover how long this had been happening, and the common answer corresponds with the general time of your arrival on base. Why have you never reported any of this discrimination?”

The cassettes looked at one another in confusion, then Steeljaw gave their answer. “Because, sir, no one cares. We’re just lowly drones after all.”

Prowl sat back in his chair from the slight loom he had accidentally moved into during his explanation. “You see yourselves as drones, not mechs?”

Four furious negatory helm shakes met that and Steeljaw answered again, very swiftly starting to reveal himself as the accepted leader of the foursome. “No sir, we know we are mechs, however, everyone else believes, and refuse to believe otherwise, that we are preprogrammed imitation mecha.”

“Something I shall be rectifying, I assure you.” Prowl stated with a nod. “However, as much of an affront as I feel this discrimination is, I cannot discipline the main offenders because the abuse is currently unreported.”

“Is there a statute of limitations on the length of time between the incident’s occurrence and the reporting, sir?” Steeljaw could feel the twins’ plating vibrate behind him as they tried to rein in their hope that they might yet acquire true retribution for the acts done against them and not what little they could extract with their retaliations.

Prowl was struggling to smother a smirk. “No there is not.”

The cassettes’ smiles reached potentially illegal widths. “In that case sir, we, the four cassettes of Blaster, the Chief Communications Officer, would like to register one hundred and twenty-seven separate incident reports regarding frame discrimination with intent to harm.”

Prowl’s smirk finally escaped his control.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

The disciplinary hearing was held that very dark-cycle with the entirety of High Command in attendance. The hearing was not open for general admission, though Prowl ensured that the reason for it was not a secret. The entire base was now aware of the grievous crimes committed by the few and tolerated by the many.

The tribunal itself was rather short; once presented with the plethora of evidence against them, the frontliners and artillery mecha put up no pretense of innocence. Since every soldier was needed, unsavory character or not, the Autobots could not afford to discharge them. Instead, the miscreants were demoted to the lowest possible ranking for their various departments, stripped of all previously achieved honors and awards, and then transferred to the front lines.

Prowl was pleased with the decisive solution, although he did not show it externally. With the hearing completed the Praxian was free to return to his usual stacks of datapads. However, the current top of the stacks were recommendation forms for a new Head of Security. The recently resolved affair was deplorable to Prowl, especially when he chose to further investigate the security archives. The number of unreported exploitations and harassments was staggering. Sure, no attempts of infiltration, theft, or sabotage went unreported, but overlooking dishonorable conduct simply because it was perpetrated by their fellow Autobots was unacceptable.

Prowl had submitted his findings to the Prime directly and subsequently received instructions to quietly find a replacement for their Security Division who would actually do the job properly. The SIC had immediately sent out private communiqués to all of the other base commanders asking for recommendations of promotion for any of their security personnel. The only thing left to do now was gothrough the data and begin the refinement process.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

The blue frontliner was waiting when Jazz got off shift. He seeme nervous, and if the saboteur had not known better he would have thought it genuine. When the mech spoke the visored Polyhexian noted that he had an unusual vocalizer. It was deep, but it had this odd sort of gravelly burble behind it. It intrigued the musically inclined opsmech. The frontliner introduced himself as Turbulence as they chatted for a bit on the new arrangement in the Deck. Then, the mech asked. “Would you be interested in getting together at the North Observatory for some energon this dark-cycle?”

Jazz paused for a moment in feigned contemplation, it would not do to seem eager. “Well, Ah ‘spose that’s be alright, but jus’ fo’ ene’gon. Blaster n’ Ah’re kinda together.”

Turbulence was quick to reassure him. “No no, I understand. My intentions are purely platonic, I just want to be friends.”

The observatories were THE spot to go for a private rendezvous, and no one invited another to them without romantic designs. However, the choice of venue was perfect for Jazz’s plans so he played naïve. “In tha’ case, sure. When ya wanna met?”

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

Four gunners and five frontliners stood on the landing pad. All their worldly possessions were stuffed into subspace or small shipping crates, and they were alone. No friends or acquaintances came to wish them luck and even their supervisor was remaining at a distance as he watched their departure. They had been made an example to the rest of the base of High Command’s expectations, and the soldiers had taken it to spark with the immediate shunning of the offenders. It was almost worse than the death sentence of the frontlines.

None of them cared, at least outwardly, they were within their rights as freemecha and no one could tell them otherwise. It was injustice that they had been removed from their prestigious posts and bumped down to cannonfodder. All nine of them were determined to survive the front; to show the snobs of Command that they could not be beaten by a few meaningless words and a transfer. Let the crowd-pleasers do as they wished, these nine were overcomers and the world would eventually see their rightness.

A war-worn transport landed and lowered its loading ramp. All of its cargo had been removed on another deck so the demoted mecha boarded without delay. A few of them cast sour looks back towards Iacon Base and Backbite, who was last to board, made one final declaration to his accusers. “This will not be the last you see of me! I will be back!”

Then the ramp retracted and the shuttle took off.


	13. To Ensnare a Snoop

The shuttle flew over the outlands to avoid Decepticon patrols, though its ride was far from smooth. Shortly after take-off a light acidrain storm set in and began to buffet the transport around. The very much ground loving mecha inside felt their tanks churn as each sweep of the wind made them feel like they had dropped into a bottomless pit.

The storm became worse as they flew and the prayers to Primus for mercy achieved chant status. Backbite finally had enough. He unstrapped himself from his bench and stumbled his way to the cockpit. The former gunnery chief tried to open the door, but it was locked. His ire rose at being denied access and he slammed his fist against the impediment. “Hey you! Pilot! The air is getting to rough. Land this thing before we end up crashing!”

There was no answer.

Just as Backbite went to hit the door again, the ship’s power went out and the ship went into freefall. The seated mecha groaned and screamed in terror. Then the sensation caught up with their tanks and the sound of retching filled the cabin. Backbite could feel splatters of half-processed energon coat his plating, but he was too busy slamming into the ceiling and sides to care.

The power came back on at the last moment and the engines screamed with effort as the shuttle was pulled up violently. It was not enough to prevent the crash, but it kept the landing from being terminal. When the transport finally came to rest, all of its passengers were unconscious. The cockpit door opened and two mechs strode out to view their handywork. Both mecha were clad in all black plating, though one had a bright blue visor and the other a pair of distinct L-shaped sensor horns.

“So, whacha think o’ mah choice o’ punishments?”

“It is adequate. How far’s tha nearest settlement again?”

“Two orns drive north. Howevah, since we’ll be appropriatin’ their transf’mation cogs, it’ll take ‘em at leas’ three times tha’ long.”

The sensor horned mech nodded and reached down to flip over the battered form of Backbite. On the other side of the space his visored companion rifled through the emergency storage. “Hey, how many cubes ya wanna leave ‘em?”

“How many are there?”  
“Oh, leas’ ‘nough fo’ a decacycle.”

“Too many.” said the horned mech as he moved to his partner’s side. “Leave ‘em three orns worth an’ let ‘em ration it.”

“Oh, harsh mech. Ya’re still upset ova’ what happened aren’tcha.” the visored mech replied as he extracted the extra cubes.

His compatriot flashed him a Look. “Ya think?! Tha littles never told meh so I had to find out in tha court room with everyone else! Do ya realize how tha’ made meh feel? It’s mah job ta protect ‘em an’ they thought they couldn’t tell meh!”

The other patted his shoulder in sympathy. “Well, y takin’ care o’ it now. Ya got our lil message set up?”

His freshly distraught friend nodded and they completed the rest of their tasks in silence. When they finished, the visored mech led the way out of the grounded shuttle. A sleek, stealthclass micro shuttle was sitting at rest outside and the two black mechs rapped their knuckles against its hull. Its side hatch slid away and they boarded. The ship took off as soon as the aperture resealed. They slid into the passenger seats and allowed their ops-paint to fade. Bumblebee turned from the pilot’s seat to look at his teammates. “You two get it out of your systems now?”

Jazz and Blaster leaned back with satisfied airs and answered together. “Uh huh.”

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

Backbite came to slowly. He ached everywhere and he knew if he looked down he would see dents and gouges littering his chassis. He managed to fight through the pain enough to sit up, and as he did an object fell off his chest. He shook his throbbing helm to dispel the last of the fog that covered it and saw that the rest of his fellows were doing likewise. Backbite leaned over and picked up the object that he now recognized as a datapad. It bore a message addressed to him. Opening it he read:  
~Touching the littles was a bad move. Have fun on your journey and next time don’t choose a target with friends in dark places. Or better yet, don’t pick a target at all. Be grateful we left you with your sparks and choose a better road for your functionings. We are watching you and mercy will not visit you again.~

Backbite dropped the datapad and rushed out the open loading ramp. He saw nothing but open space and lonely crags for stadias in every direction. He dashed back in and ripped open the cockpit door. It was empty and all the controls had been irreparably destroyed, the shuttle would never fly again. Backbite screamed in rage and planted his fist in the useless console. He turned around to face his mechs, who were grouped around the datapad reading it with dumbstruck, stricken looks. One brave spark stepped forward to address their leader. “’Bite they only left us three orns of rations, one medkit, and two shielded tarps. The nearest settlement is four thousand stadias away and with all our transformation cogs deactivated it’ll take us at least three-quarters of a decacycle or more to walk. What do we do?”

Backbite’s ire finally snapped and he lunged towards the hapless speaker.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

Jazz stood close beside Blaster as they discussed the new team that would be arriving mid light-cycle. They both took advantage of the proximity to sneak in subtle, proprietary brushes of their servos against the other’s plating. They would also give the other sweet little secretive glances every now and then.

Both of them would be indulging in a long cleanse later as they scrubbed the creepy feelings away with fervor. Part of the twinlets’ plan involved encouraging the rumor mill’s still circulating story about the two Polyhexians being involved, but it was seriously squicking the two out to act their parts.

Jazz braced himself as he slid his servotips over Blaster’s spinal array just above his aft and tried to look appropriately smitten. He nearly purged. Blaster was just barely holding together and trying desperately not to shudder in revulsion. The hostmech had ejected his littles earlier and refused to have them with him while he played this façade. They both knew it was working splendidly as every mech on the Deck was giving them smug, approving glances. It would be all over the base by the dark-cycle, not to mentioned every other base that commed them that orn, for in truth there were no better gossips than commsmecha.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

The replacements had arrived. Blaster met them on the landing platform and was now escorting them through a tour of the base. When the Polyhexian announced this in the ornly meeting more than one officer had implied that it was beneath his purview as an officer and suggested that such menial tasks were better suited to underlings. He rebuffed those options of course, even when told plainly that, as Head of Communications, he had greater responsibilities than playing tour guide. Blaster answered them all, saying simply, that a leader’s first duty was to his team, and then refused to say anything more on the topic.

He was now glad of his decision and was thoroughly enjoying getting to know his new subordinates. There were five of them, Blackbeam and Ridgewire, who specialized in the multithreaded chaos of shunting hundreds of comms at a single instance, such as battle; Frequency, whose talents lay in encryption; and Pulseflow and SonarPing who had long been in competition with the recently deceased commsmecha for the title of Fastest Decryptors. All in all, they were an impressive bunch and it made Blaster just a little sad to think of what had needed to occur for these bright young mecha to get a chance at the top.

Blaster ended the tour at the Communications Deck to serve the dual goal of acquainting the new mecha with their place of work and allowing the on duty Jazz to get a good look at them. Now, the cassettemaster was under no illusions that this would be his counterpart’s first glance at them; he knew quite well that the saboteur had hacked the security feed and observed them from the moment they had stepped of the shuttle to now.

He had to servo it to the mech though, Jazz really did know how to pretend to be surprised. The group entered the Deck to the exclaimation of, “Well, well, ‘are these our new mechs?”

Blaster sent him a dry look and ‘introduced’ the mechs. It was a short painless meeting, and then he gathered the new mecha out in the hall to take them to their quarters.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

Jazz glared over at his best friend with the most put upon face he could muster. Blaster was busy smashing buttons and ruthlessly jabbing at switches while pointedly not looking at his ‘beloved.’ The entire Deck was silent as everyone, even the new mecha, knew Something had happened.

Internally however, was a completely different story, as was attested by the Polyhexians’ private commline.

-:-*snicker* Hey Blaster, flex ya shoulders at meh, n’ sit up a bit straightah. N’ try ta tilt ya nasal ridge up a smidge more.-:-

-:-Why?-:- came the bemused reply.

-:-Cuz it makes ya look all self-righteous n’ it’s funny as pit ta see tha othas faceplates everytime ya make a move.-:-

Blaster did as asked and noticed that the other mecha in the room seemed to hunch in on themselves as if praying they would make it out still-functioning.

-:-Ya know, you’re right. It is funny. *grin*-:-

-:-Tol’ja so. *smug grin*-:-

The steely silence continued and Jazz increased his angry pout to up the ante.

-:-Is ya lovermech watchin’? *waggled optic ridges*-:-

-:-Yeah, but it don’ seem ta be impressin’ him none.-:-

-:-Hmm, maybe I should step it up a notch.-:-

-:-Uh, Blasta’, what’re ya plannin’? *sweatdrop*-:-

The hostmech stood up slowly, each movement made with deliberate precision, and strode over to Loom™ above his partner. The visored black and white allowed his pout to slip into a sullen stare as he pointedly ignored the other in favor of finishing the translation of a series of incoming messages.

Blaster leaned into Jazz’s personal space to stare at the mech’s console screen. “Just because ya have personal problems does not mean ya can slack off. I saw those files ya just did an’ they were sloppy. Now, go back an’ do ‘em again properly, because if I have ta redo one more of ya tasks I’ma dismiss ya as unfit for duty.”

Jazz’s servos turned to claws as he gripped the edge of his console and he turned to give a retort. However, Blaster had already stepped away and returned to his own terminal. The saboteur lifted his clawed servos towards his superior and pantomimed strangling him. When that too was disregarded Jazz swung back to his translation screen with an angry huff.

-:-Mah mech, tha’ was amazin’! Didja see everyone’s reactions?!-:-

-:-Yeah, Tall, Dark, an’ Blue really seemed ta eat it up as well. He is currently givin’ ya tha most sympathic sad optics I have ever seen not on a turbopuppy.-:-

-:-*snicker* Ya think he’ll make a move now?-:-

-:-Oh yeah, he’d be foolish not ta.-:-

The Deck’s stony quiet remained for the entire shift. Step Two, the ‘Lover’s Spat’, was complete.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

After shift was more of the same charade with Blaster storming off in one direction and Jazz the opposite.

The cassette-master made a quick stop at the commissary for energon-to-go and then headed straight for his quarters. When he opened the door, his cassettes, Bumblebee, and Mirage were waiting for him. He distributed the energon he picked up while he surveyed their work. They had cleared off his desk and berth and arranged a series of portable security screens across the surfaces. They had also borrowed enough hoverchairs from Spec Ops to seat everyone comfortably.

Most of the screens were currently hacked into the base’s security grid and showed every corridor between the Communications Deck, where Turbulence was still on duty, to the West Observatory. The primary camera though, was the mobile feed provided by Steeljaw who was currently tracking the undercover saboteur through the vents.

Jazz had sequestered himself in one of the seating niches in the observatory and appeared rather pitiful as he looked forlornly out the perspex window to the half-crumbled skyline of Old Iacon.

The seven watching mecha were on pins and needles with the strain of waiting. This particular part of the operation was so delicate that a single wrong move could ruin the whole façade. Most of this was because the success of their endeavor rested in the servos of an outsider. If Turbulence did not take the bait they would have to completely revamp their plan of attack, and they really could not afford anymore setbacks.

Finally, it was time, Turbulence was off shift and leaving the Communications Deck. Seven sets of vents stalled in anticipation as the blue frontliner accessed the base’s mainframe. A quick hack by Bumblebee and they all cycled atmosphere again, their quarry was pinging for Jazz’s location. They tracked him through the halls and crossed their servotips for luck as he entered the observatory.

All sever watchers subconsciously leaned closer to the screens as Turbulence slowly approached the balled-up saboteur. He sat close enough to be inside Jazz’s personal space but far enough that it would be petty to complain about it. He did not look at the black and white, instead he focused on the still visible skyline. The two of them stayed like that for nearly a quarter of a joor; one mech wallowing in a tempest of inconsolable emotions and the other offering silent comfort with their very presence.

When Jazz finally moved to wipe away the cleanser pouring down his cheekstruts Turbulence chose to break the silence. “You wanna talk about it?”

“N-no, yes… Ah don’ kno.” the Polyhexian replied shakily. “Ah prob’ly oughta, b-but, Ah mean wha’ c’n one really say? It’s all a mess n’ Ah don’ kno wha’ ta do.”

Turbulence sighed and leaned over to stroke the back of Jazz’s neck column. “Look, you’re obviously too stressed to be able to process this right now, so why don’cha come back to my quarters for the evening to relax for a bit.”

The guardsmech saw that Jazz was about to reject the offer on the principle of being in a relationship and quickly added. “I promise I’m not trying to come on to you. I just know that you are going to need some privacy to let your emotions out, and you don’t need to be alone while you’re feeling this way.”

The visored mech relented and stood up with a submissive nod. “Y-ya’ll listen? Ya’ll be there fo’ meh?”

Turbulence wrapped his near arm around the saboteur’s shoulders. “I will always be there for you. I am your friend and that is what friends are for.”

The unseen watchers grinned and high-fived. Step Three begun. Probability of successful completion? High.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

The seventh joor of the dark-cycle was always quiet, and thanks to the lengths of the dark-cycle shifts, the mechs on Security detail would be so bleary-opticked that a slight shift in the shadows would be passed off as a trick of overtired optic fibers. Jazz was taking full advantage of this to sneak back to his quarters unnoticed. He slipped in silently, trying his best not to disturb his roommates’ recharge, but they were already awake.

“’S everythin’ alright mechs? Ya don’ usually wait up fo’ meh.”

His partners exchanged glances before each put a servo on one of his shoulders and steered him to sit on the berth. They cautiously took the places on either side of him, then Bumblebee spoke. “We just wanted to make sure you were ok. We know that you had to interface this time, and even though it was only tactile, it can still leave scars.”

It was true, this was his fifteenth tryst with Turbulence and the mech had finally made a move to deepen the secret relationship. Jazz and Blaster had continued to repeat the pattern of make up, be inseparable lovers for a few orns, then have a knock-down drag-out verbal fight. Each time he and Blaster had a ‘tiff’, Turbulence would come forward to offer comfort, and with each subsequent trysting he would become bolder. After the seventh meeting the blue frontliner kissed Jazz on the cheekstrut and during the tenth he initiated a make-out session with the ‘distressed’ Polyhexian. Given that pattern of escalation, the team suspected and prepared for the introduction of interfacing. This included a post-session reassuring of the enduring party, namely, Jazz.

The saboteur was grateful for, and readily accepting of, his team’s comfort. As they surrounded him with their bolstering presence he found himself hoping that he would never need to go this far again, futile wish though it was. As an Ops agent he knew that interfacing was a common tool used by his department, but that did not make him wish any less to have a real lover.

To have someone who truly loved him, that he could come home to, and who would help him cleanse the feeling of unfriendly, unwanted servos from his plating. Jazz was sure he would not be having so much turmoil over this particular tactic if he had that. However, such a mech did not currently exist for the angsting saboteur, so he took what healing he could from his friends.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

For two orns Jazz played the part of a guilty lover and avoided the blue frontliner. At the end of the second he allowed Turbulence to corner him near the storage areas. The mech was anxious, filled with concern that he had driven the commsmech off whit his forwardness. “Hey Jazz, um, are you… we ok? You’ve been avoiding me, and I know you are technically in a relationship with Blaster, but he doesn’t treat you right, and I know it’s probably frightening to consider moving on to someone new, but I care about you too much to continue to watch you get hurt.”

Jazz smiled internally at the mech’s rushed words, rejoicing because it played straight into Step Four. His way assured, the saboteur schooled his face into an appropriately concerned/scared/longing expression and replied. “It’s not jus’ tha’ Turb, Ah can’t leave him. If Ah break it off wit’ him Ah lose everythin’. He got meh mah current position n’ he gives meh protection, both o’ which he’ll take away if Ah leave wha’ Ah got wit’ him.”

Turbulence wrapped his arms around his secret lover. “I will never let that happen, I’ll protect you.”

“There’s nothin’ ya c’n do! He’s tha helm o’ tha division n’ he holds all tha power. He’ll have meh stripped o’ mah rank n’ discharged, maybe even imprisoned.” Jazz said as he pulled away.

Now the guardsmech looked confused. “How would he be able to do that? As far as I know the Autobots don’t lock up soldiers for not maintaining a romantic relationship.”

Jazz gave him a guilty glance and fidgeted. “Cuz he might kno tha’ Ah kinda might have some doubts about certain aspects o’ tha Autobot Cause.”

The saboteur poised himself to look like he was about to flee, but Turbulence caught hold of his shoulders, his large servos completely engulfing most of Jazz’s upper arms as well.

“My dearest, it is alright to have doubts, everyone does, it’s what you do with them that is important.” the frontliner’s faceplates lit up as if having an epiphany. “In fact, sometimes it is best to share your doubts with someone else who can help allay your fears and bring some logic against what are often irrational worries.”

“Ya won’ think badly o’ meh fo’ bein’ unsure?” Jazz gazed hopefully into the other’s optics.

“Of course not.” came the confident reply. The blue mech directed them both into the relative privacy of a storage block and sat down upon a crate. Jazz turned away to dust off another crate for his own seat and could not restrain his smirk. They nearly had their spy now. Hook, line, and explosives-laced sinker.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

::So, what would you say if I told you I had a way to retain complete control over our new little partner while simultaneously never needing to interface with him again?::

::I would ask for more details, of course.::

::Well, as it turns out, our little commsmech is only an Autobot because his lover is. He is harboring some definite sympathies for the Decepticons, but hides it because he is convinced the Autobots will win the war.::

::You’re thinking of blackmail, aren’t you.::

::Yep.::

::I hate to break it to you, but just sympathies are not going to be enough to keep him silently tethered.::

::I am aware of that. Which is why I have tricked him into sending our next transmission to Lord Megatron.::

::What?! How did you manage that without him decrying us to his superiors?!::

::It was easy. I just told him the message was for a friend in a neutral colony.::

::And you just conveniently forgot to mention that the colony was actually the Decepticon Intelligence Depot in disguise.::

::Exactly, and after he sends it we will have enough leverage over him to keep him doing our bidding for as long as he is useful.::

::You know, that is actually a well thought out and surprisingly devious plan. I applaud you.::

::Thanks my love.::

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

[Urgent Report]  
To: Autobot High Command, Iacon Base, Iacon

From: Captain Caliber, Commander of Paximus Base, Tyger Pax

Lieutenant General Ironhide,  
This missive is to report that the soldiers from the missing transport have at long last been recovered. According to their statements, which have been enclosed at the end of the report, their shuttle was forced to crash land during the recent acid storm. The stress of the crash, along with the subsequent discovery that the transport was rendered completely inoperable, short-circuited the processor of one of their number and caused him to turn violently upon the other survivors. This mech, designated Backbite, deactivated one of them and severely injured another three before they were able to subdue him. The remaining soldiers buried the terminated mech so that the Decepticons would not find and desecrate the fallen frame. They then bravely made the long trek across the wastelands, whilst dragging Backbite, on quarter rations until they found a neutral encampment. Thankfully, the neutrals had a medic among their number who was able to repair our injured mechs. After receiving aid, the survivors contacted our base for pickup. I ordered Backbite to undergo immediate psychiatric evaluation, the report from which is also attached at the end, and it ultimately suggested a severe regimen of psychotherapy for the slim chance of possible recovery, otherwise a complete wipe and reprogram will be the only cure. It is my endeavor to ask for High Command to render a decision on this delicate matter post-haste.

Respectfully,  
Captain Caliber, Paximus Base


	14. To Catch a Thief

Jazz pinged the private line for Blackshot as he returned from his spark-to-spark with Turbulence. The blue guard had given him a transmission packet for a friend in a neutral sector, but the saboteur suspected it was less innocent than it appeared.

If he was right then all his worries about interfacing would be over. The cassettes plan had given the double agents an opportunity on which to capitalize, but this promised to go far beyond that.

The saboteur entered his quarters just as his commander slipped out of the vent. The master agent went to sit down and did a double-take. He glared at the Chair of Ultimate Comfort, which showed the unrepentant opsmechs that their leader was just now realizing that some of his furniture might possibly have been appropriated. Team Jazz: 1, Team Ops Security: 0.

Blackshot did not say anything about it though and the small team took it as permission to keep their purloined goods. However, he did claim it as his seat of power in payment. The rest of those present arranged themselves across the less-comfortable-than-The-Chair berths.

“So, what is it that has one of my best saboteurs suddenly hacking through my encrypted comm conference with the Prime to demand my presence?” started Blackshot.

Jazz cringed, he had been so elated by the potential windfall that he had made the critical error of not checking who the Ops Commander was speaking to. There would more than likely be remedial training in punishment. “Sorry fo’ tha interruption sir, but we needed command permission fo’ a transmission.”

Blackshot raised a single optic ridge. “What kind of transmission would need my physical presence to sign off on?”

Blaster had been translating a copy of the message, which Jazz had transmitted over as soon as he left Turbulence’s presence, and answered. “A packet of Autobot intel detailing our current patrol routes, incursion response times, in which order we would issue troops in tha case of tha former, an’ which underground tunnels are still unmeched. It’s all tha information that changed after tha assassinations, but tha clincher is an included copy of Optimus Prime’s current itinerary.”

Both of the general’s optic ridges were now reaching for vertical take-off from his upper helm plating. He sat there contemplating the potential ramifications and knew there was only one possible solution. “Though it is technically my responsibility to weigh the risks of allowing information to pass from our servos, this data is too sensitive. It will leave us and our Prime woefully open to attack, and the Decepticons will certainly not hesitate to use it. However, to not send the message out will alert the moles to our awareness of their existence and Jazz’s complicity in trapping them. There are only two mecha who are authorized to make this type of decision. The Prime, or his Second.”

The motley crew exchanged dismayed glances. Contacting Optimus Prime for permission was out of the question given that he was halfway across the planet assisting Lieutenant General Magnus, but the alternative… None of them really wanted to venture a guess on Prowl’s receptiveness to their mission, but there was not much choice. Blackshot braced himself as he considered whether he could even try to tolerate the inclusion of a mech he despised like a rust infection. He wanted to remain in denial of the inevitable as long as possible, but the expectant, yet patient, looks of his subordinates cut his wishful thinking short. “Fine, we will consult with General Prowl.”

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

When Prowl received the urgent summons from Lt. General Blackshot, he was secretly glad. Although the stacks on his desk were less dense than usual, their lengthy dryness was driving him to recharge. Despite never having gotten along with the Ops Commander, whose preference of a very servos off approach to his subordinates made the Praxian want to claw the walls in frustration, when the master of subterfuge called him it always left Prowl’s meta feeling pleasantly stretched after.

The black and white stood slowly, carefully acknowledging that he had not left his desk since the morning brief some twelve joors earlier and gingerly stretched his very stiff struts and linkages. He exited his office and made his way through the sparsely populated corridors. It was late in the orn and most were making their way towards recharge, which meant few were out to witness the SIC’s passing. Still, he cautiously backtracked three times before entering the hall for the officers’ quarters. He made to step into his rooms and felt a servo on his shoulder followed by the distinctive static wash of an electrodisruptor engaging. Security cameras now fooled as to his location, Prowl followed Mirage to the rendezvous point. The SIC and the noble spy were quite familiar with one another as this method of invisible transport was a favorite of Blackshot’s.

It surprised Prowl though, when the blue and white mech led him to the noncommissioned officers’ wing instead of the Ops Debriefing Chambers. They entered a room midway along the first hall. Inside the Praxian saw his Chief of Communications, Comms Second, one of the requisitions noncoms, and a very smug looking Lt. General Blackshot.

Prowl’s wings twitched and a slight frown crossed his faceplates. “I’m going to need a new set of officers for the Communications Division, aren’t I.”

The lieutenant general shrugged noncommittally, which only made Prowl’s frown deepen in frustration. “Very well, what matter has shown such importance that you would deign to call upon me?”

As was typical of Blackshot’s leadership style, he did not provide the answer himself, but merely waved to his subordinates instead. The Communications Second, Captain Jazz, was first to speak. “General Prowl, sir, sev’ral decacycles ago Ops received info tha’ a group o’ spies was leakin’ secrets out o’ Iacon. Prelim’nary investigations came up null so’s Ops decided ta send a, infiltration team. It originally consisted o’ Bumblebee, Mirage, n’ mahself, wit’ Blasta’ bein’ a late addition. Our team has uncovahed the ID o’ two o’ tha spies, one o’ which wa term’nated in tha Comms assassinations. The deactivated mech was tha group’s sender n’ wit’out him they went on tha hunt fo’ a new sender. Mah team n’ Ah laid a trap ta get ‘em ta choose meh as their new member. We’re at tha final stage o’ our plan, but in order ta finish it we need permission ta release potentially harmful info’mation ‘bout our faction tat ha ‘Cons.”

Prowl sat down on a nearby stool and leaned against the wall. His battlecomputer was already devouring the relevant datapoints and was clamoring for more complete facts. “May I have a copy of the proposed information and the specifics of the necessity of its dissemination?”

Major Blaster servoed him a datacrystal and he inserted it into a wristport for immediate upload. Prowl’s meta gnawed on the new variables like a turbohound with a favorite chewstrut until the battlecomputer finished its computations to satisfactory standards. The Praxian returned the crystal to the hostmech and arose from his seat. “Given the data presented I can reasonably suggest one viable plan of attack with a probability of success of 94.32962%.”

He looked around to ensure he had everymech’s attention before presenting his recommendation. “There is a forecast of heavy scattered ion storms across the entirety of the Iacon citystate this dark-cycle. Normally, such storms would not affect our comms, but Mechanical had been running diagnostics on all external base hardware for the past three orns. This has temporarily compromised the integrity of our transmissions whilst the ill-favored weather is present.”

Blaster nodded in agreement. “Yeah, some of mah mechs’ve been receivin’ requests for resends due ta incomplete transmissions that weren’t detectable until after tha encryptions were run an’ most of tha time we can’t issue repeats because of ion blackouts.”

“Exactly. It should be possible for you to feign an incomplete broadcast and later a blackout that shall prevent the sensitive records from falling into enemy servos whilst you catch the spies.” finished Prowl.

The team of opsmecha smiled and Blackshot looked relieved. “Thank you General, your help is appreciated. Mirage will escort you back to your quarters now.”

The spy straightened from his leaning position near the door and made to assist the Praxian, however, Prowl was not done yet. “Lt. General, while I am pleased that your team has made such progress towards capturing those who would practice subterfuge among us, I am extremely displeased that you did not bother to inform either myself or the Prime. I understand that your department is very insular, but that does not excuse you from following proper procedure.”

The Ops Commander frowned and crossed his arms. “And what would you have done Prowl? I’ll tell you, you’d of hidden or double-encrypted all our most sensitive data and tipped off the infiltrators to our trap. Then they’d go underground and we’d never find them.”

Prowl returned the frown and raised him a pair of hiked doorwings. “Contrary to your opinion, I do know how to properly conduct a special operation and incidentally, did it even occur to you that had you followed SOP I might have been able to help you end this sooner?”

Blackshot met the ante and called with a sullen, defiant glare. “Mah mechs can do their jobs on their own without you trying to micromanage them. For Primus-sake, you have enough on your desk without trying to add a self-sufficient ops mission to it!”

The Praxian yielded to the call and showed his cards. “Managing style is not the point, expediency and correct procedure are. Now, I expect to be notified as soon as the Decepticons are captured and I will be participating in their interrogation.”

Blackshot fumed, but nodded. He knew that to do otherwise would be considered insubordination, and Prowl would not hesitate to bring him up on charges. “Yes sir, it will be as you have ordered.”

“then until we meet again.” the SIC replied. He waited for Mirage to engage his cloaking device and then they left.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

Turbulence was cleaning his guns when the chime for his quarters sounded. He opened the door to find a smiling Jazz and after a quick hug he invited the commsmech in. The frontliner’s roommates were all on shift already so Jazz had his pick of seats, and yet he remained standing. Turbulence suspected he knew what was causing the black and white mech’s wariness and sat down near his guns to appear less threatening while still having the means by which to defend himself. Jazz had not spoken since entering the room so Turbulence started the conversation. “Hey Jazz, what’s up? You don’t usually come down here during the orn.”

The Polyhexian shifted restlessly from one ped to the other and tapped his primary digits together. “Um, well, Ah got ya message out las’ shift, but, um, tha reply Ah got back was kinda odd.”

“Oh?” replied the frontliner with fake curiosity.

“Yeah, um, they said tha information was overdue? And um, tha’ ya were ta speed up on ya schedule‘re else? What’s goin’ on Turb?” asked the unsettled commsmech.

The blue mech leaned back towards his guns in a nonchalant fashion. “Oh, nothing, really. Just my handler expressing his displeasure over delays.”

“Y-ya handler?”

“I forgot to mention it didn’t I.” stated Turbulence with a shake of his helm. “I’m a Decepticon spy, and now, so are you.”

Jazz stepped back in shock. “Wha’?! No Ah’m not! If this is some kinda joke ‘bout wha’ Ah tol’ ya yesta’orn it’s not funny.”

The frontliner cum spy laid his arm along the table in a perfect picture of complete relaxation. “It’s no joke. I’ve been spying for the ‘Cons for several vorns now, but sadly my previous partner met with a most unfortunate accident. I had to replace him and I have decided that you are perfect for the job.”

“No! Ah’m not helpin’ ya! Ah’m leavin’ right now n’ reportin’ ya n’ nothin’ ya say c’n change mah meta.” Jazz answered angrily.

And that was Turbulence’s cue. He snatched up his nearest gun and leveled it on the commsmech’s spark. “No, I don’t believe you are. For you see, if you try to report me I will simply tell them you are trying to frame me, and since the transmission tags have your signature on them… Well, given the evidence, who do you think they will believe?”

Jazz froze in feigned fear as the frontliner target-locked on him and knew that he had to be very careful with how he played the next few kliks. “Fine, Ah won’ report ya, but Ah’m still not helpin’ ya.”

“Yes you will. I can still send in an anonymous report of a suspected leak in the Comms Division, which will have Security investigating the recent message logs. They will find the package you sent and then they will imprison you as a spy.”

The visored Polyhexian slumped down on the nearest berth in defeat. “Ya planned all this right from tha beginnin’ didn’ ya? Ya were neva’ mah friend. All ya wanted was blackmail material so’s ya could have an outlet fo’ ya gathered intel.”

“You are correct. You were foolish to trust somemech who was willing to seduce you while you still had a claim upon you and now you will receive the consequences of your deception.” said Turbulence with cruel exultation. “Now, will you cooperate or will I need to notify Autobot Command of an apprehended spy?”

Jazz seemed to crumple from the hopelessness of his situation. “Yeah, Ah’ll do whateva’ ya want.”

The frontliner grinned in triumph and laid his gun back down on the table. “Excellent, then let us discuss the full terms of our new relationship…”

Before the spy could elaborate, the door to the room burst open and several black-plated ops agents swarmed him. Turbulence reached back to grab his guns but they had disappeared. He snarled in anger and lashed out with his fists. He was not a frontliner class mech for looks alone and he used his considerable strength to throw off the first of his attackers. The second aggressor did not give him a chance to grab or maim, and simply shot him with a stunblaster.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

When Turbulence regained consciousness he was strapped down to a berth in the Medbay with his chestplates parted and a specialized scanner going over his spark. He knew immediately what they were trying to do and he instinctively reached out to his bonded.

::Run my love!::

::Turbulence? What’s going on?::

::I don’t know how, but they had found me out. They are scanning my spark’s frequency so they can find you! You must run now!::

::But…::

::No! If you escape then you can still be useful to the Decepticons elsewhere and our creation will be safe. If we are both captured he deactivates, you know this!::

::Alright… Don’t… Don’t let them terminate you. Give them whatever you have to, but stay functioning! I will be back for you.::

::I love you.::

::I love you too my Spark.::

The blue spy felt his bonded’s presence fade from his spark and he prayed that his beloved would reach safety. He could hear his captors speaking in low tones somewhere nearby, but could not make out their words. Eventually, one of them walked into his line of sight and he gasped.

Jazz. Jazz the commsmech. Jazz the highly insecure lover of the Communications Commander. Jazz the mech who had never met a mech he did not want to befriend… was Ops. Turbulence knew he had been set up, but not until now did he understand to what extent the trap had reached. He was beyond furious and began to thrash in his bindings. Jazz on the other servo was glad that the most delicate part of the operation was now over and that this spy, along with his partner, would soon be turned over to the interrogators. The sooner this mission was complete the better. Ho noted that the spy was tossing about on the berth and thought the mech was trying to dislodge the scanner. “Now, now, none o’ tha’. We alreadeh have the info ta find ya partner so be still. Ya’ll be reunited soon ‘nough.”

“Slag you! You are nothing but a lying glitch who can’t be trusted.” Snarled the captive blue mech.

The saboteur snorted. “Look at tha ball-bearin’ callin’ tha cog greasy.”

Jazz did not wait for a reply, not that it would have been more than spat invectives anyway, and returned to the consoles. Bumblebee looked up from monitoring the search for the other spy to give Jazz a questioning glance. The Polyhexian grinned. “Our guest doesn’ like tha accommodations n’ was tryin’ ta keep us from findin’ his betta’ half.”

“Well, it’s too late for that. The mainframe has already given us the designation of our other mole.”

“Status report?”

“Blaster is at Comms directing traffic; the cassettes are in the vents in case our subject manages to elude our agents; and Mirage is on standby outside of Tactical.”

Jazz lifted an optical ridge behind his visor. “Why Tactical?”

“Our leak is Splashdown, a junior tactician in charge of processing finished contingencies for filing errors.” replied Bumblebee with a chagrinned grimace.

Ah, it made sense. That was how the infiltrators had managed to acquire all those sensitive records. It had to sting the pride of SpecOps, for they had performed extensive, rigid examinations of every member of Prowl’s department and not found any incriminating evidence.

A stray thought tripped through Jazz’s processor threads and he glanced back at Turbulence. While they were far enough from him to not be overheard when speaking quietly, it would not stay under his hearing range if the second capture went south. To prevent the blue mech from potentially warning his partner Jazz signaled a medic to give the mole a short-acting sedative.

With that oversight taken care of, the saboteur was free to actively join in the pursuit of Splashdown. He clapped a servo to Bumblebee’s shoulder and said. “Ah’m goin’ ta help. Ah’m patchin’ in ta Blasta’ so if’n ya need meh, call meh through him.”

The yellow minibot smiled. “You got it boss, but I think I can handle sparklingsitting an unconscious ‘Con without backup.”

Jazz nodded and sauntered out of Medical with a jaunty step. Time to go pin down an illusive junior tactician.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

Splashdown tried to look normal as he strode down the corridors in the vague direction of the underground tunnels. He knew that all the normal entrances would be heavily guarded by this point and it would be futile to even attempt to approach them. The green and pale blue mech had been in mid-shift when his bonded’s warning came through, so he was now facing the prospect of having to cross most of the base to access the only possible safe exit left. He was trying to be nonchalant as he walked through the modestly populated halls, but he just could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.

The sensation increased when he reached the more deserted corridors and there were a few times when he swore he could hear the sound of another mech’s pedsteps. Of course, it was at this moment that he finally remembered the incident of a few decacycles previous involving the invisible opsmech. Splashdown whipped out his plasma blaster and sprayed a wide field of fire across the vacant hall. A cry of pain and a blue and white mech materialized from the emptiness. The plasma had caught him in the upper leg and the opsmech dropped to the floor as he tried to staunch the energon flow. Splashdown started running, he knew that despite having incapacitated his follower, the mech would be contacting his fellows to continue the chase. Even now he could hear the faint slap of running peds in the distance.

It was to his great relief that the hatch for the tunnels was around the next bend and Splashdown slipped quietly down the ladder into the maze beyond. He called up a map of the tunnels on his HUD that he had lifted from the Autobots and overlaid it with one made by the Decepticons. There were enough unmapped spaces on the ‘Bot map that he could safely hide without truly being lost and he dashed off to the relative safety of the darkness.


	15. A Book by its Cover

Iacon, the crown jewel of Cybertron. Even in bombed out ruin its splendor shone through. From the exterior it looked almost untouched, the golden dome hiding the fractured tower husks from view, and one would not discover the true extent of the damage until one passed the gates. The domed look was an archaic design created during the Golden Age when everything was gilded to give an air of prosperity.

Iacon was one of the three oldest citystates on the planet, the title of oldest belonging to Kaon, and like most of them it had been rebuilt many times over to accommodate an ever increasing population. However, being rebuilt did not presuppose the old had been removed first. No, each New Iacon would simply be built on top of the previous Old Iacon. The old layer would be partially demolished until the builders had a level plane and then a thick plascrete plate would be welded into place to give a new, blank foundation for the new city.

This resulted in layers of ‘tunnels’ underneath the city proper. No one actually knew how many layers Iacon possessed beneath its glittering exterior, but the estimates ran in the low hundreds. Now, one would think that just because a new layer had been applied that it would not disrupt the use of the lower remains of the buildings and that underground societies would be rampant. This was also untrue. Since all the buildings on Cybertron were composed of metal, the easiest way to destroy the tops without compromising the structural integrity of the whole, was to melt them. A few buildings had survived, but this still left the majority as mostly solid, almost square, lumps of slag to provide a stable foundation for the new buildings.

Now there were a few exceptions to this method, namely the slums. It was considered too expensive, and excessive luxury, to use the plating procedure on the neighborhoods of the low-class mecha. Therefore those buildings were merely stacked upon one another like misshapen and erratically placed building blocks. Many millennia of vorn later the slums of Iacon would find an organic twin in the human city of Brazil. However, slums and melted buildings aside, that still left an enormous uncharted labyrinth under the city. And it was in this maze that Splashdown, the Decepticon spy, was now hiding.

The green and azure mech loped silently down the ancient streets and struggled to stifle a chortle. He could still hear his pursuers in the distance, but he held no fear that they would catch him. They would be proceeding cautiously into what was uncharted territory for the ‘Bots as he had entered a Decepticon mapped section sometime earlier. A few more twists and turns and he could not hear them at all no matter how hard he strained his audials.

He had lost them.

Splashdown grinned in his triumph. That Turbulence had been left behind was a bitter thought, but he would return, he would. The ex-tactician continued to creep through the ruins, ever mindful of his position on his map. It would not do after all, to get lost down there.

A few times he thought he heard the tinkle-clatter of pedefalls in the debris, but each time, after lengthy phases unmoving watchfulness, he determined it to be shifting slag loosened by eons of rust damage. He made his way towards the outlands, where he knew a small pocket of Decepticon sympathizers would give him fuel and rest for his journey to the nearest base.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

There were shadows following the spy.

The mech was surrounded and he did not even know it. A call had been put out as soon as the tactical assistant had slipped into the underground and they responded to it with fervor. It had been a long time since they had been afforded the opportunity to hunt an intruder on their territory and the gleeful volunteers were many. Their triumvirate had rolled their optics with longsuffering looks of poorly hidden amusement, then declared open season.

The poor slagsucker would never know what hit him.

And there was the signal. The clarion-call of a turbofox horn split the air and their quarry froze.

He glanced around frantically and the femmes waited for him to realize his predicament. He did not seem to be getting the picture, so the Red Queen’s team showed themselves. He spooked and took off running. The femmes grinned ferally.

The hunt was on.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

Splashdown scrambled through the dark as fast as his peds could carry him. Somehow, his pursuers had caught up to him and snuck close without him ever hearing them. He rushed to elude them once more, but they were everywhere. Every time he glanced back or to the sides he saw them. They scaled over the slagheaps and melted columns like technolizards and every ancient alley seemed to spit out a few more. One terrifying glance up had revealed two of them crawling on the ceiling. He did not look up again.

Splashdown did not know where they had all come from, nor did he care. All that mattered was getting away. He could not get captured, he had to escape. His youngling’s functioning depended on it.

The spy turned the next corner… and screeched to a halt. A WALL of mecha stood in his way. He performed a rapid about-face to run back the way he had come, but that avenue was already filled with those who had been chasing him. Splashdown knew his chances of fighting his way out were nil and he could feel the coolant start to well up in his optics. His sparkling was going to be deactivated.

Three femmes detached themselves from the crowd and approached him. The spy stared at them, willing himself not to cry and expose his weakness. These cruel, unfeeling mecha did not deserve to see his grief.

The front-most femme was a delicate rose color, almost the shade of spilled energon, and  
Splashdown felt it appropriate that the indirect murderer if his youngling would wear the color of an assassin. *He was flanked by a black, red, and gold triplechanger on *his left and a powder-blue transformer on *his right. The energon emblazoned femme spoke to him and the tone could clearly be heard as the air of one who is assured victory. "Now then, troublemaker, are you prepared to come quietly?"

Splashdown hung his helm in defeat.  
_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_  
Turbulence sat in the interrogation room awaiting his fate. It was actually a rather nice room compared to what one would find in the Decepticon equivalent. Instead of trophy frames and tables of torture devices, there were only blank walls and empty space. He also was not strapped down to a medical slab, rather, he was seated in a chair, servos cuffed to the front edge, and pedes bolted to the floor. He had to hunch over a bit to keep from straining his arms, but all in all it was nice.  
The exfrontliner knew that the Autobots did not condone torture, however, they were known to employ an entire legion of mnemosurgeons for hacking the metas of their prisoners. He was not looking forward to that, but he would not, could not give the Autobots any information lest his youngling's functioning be forfeit. There were two other chairs in the room at sixty degree angles to his own forming a rough triangle and he could only surmise that they must be sending in a paired set of interrogators to question him before the mnemosurgeons got him.

The door opened and Turbulence's spark dripped through the floor. Splashdown walked in escorted by two femme warbuilds. The green and blue mech was locked down like his bonded, then the femme left the room. Both of their communicators had been shut down and all comm signals were blocked from the room. However, the medics could not block that which was part of the spies' very sparks.

::I thought you got away?::

::As did I. I made it into the tunnels and I should have been homefree. But the 'Bots have an entire army of femme living down there!::

Turbulence blinked in surprise. ::I thought Megatron killed off all but a few of that frametype.::

::Apparently they escaped and the Glorious Leader lied to cover his aft.::  
The bondmates fell silent as their metas refused to accept the distraction and kept drifting back to the crux of their predicament. Splashdown began to whimper softly.

::It'll be alright love, you'll see. I will find us a way out. Our youngling will survive.::

::How?!:: came the distraught wail.

Turbulence hung his helm. ::I don't know.::

Before their conversation could continue, the door to the chamber opened and two mechs  
walked in. The first was a black and white Praxian whose regal doorwings were swept high, focusing attention on his serene, yet stern, countenance. Splashdown immediately shrank back, Prowl was his former boss who he had just betrayed. Undoubtedly, the mech was going to take this opportunity to strike revenge for the blow. The SIC's companion was nondescript, his blue and yellow plating was innocuous, and not even the bits of red highlights could give a clue as to his identity. The unknown mech took a leaning stance against the far wall and stared at them intently. Prowl settled himself in the last chair and began to flick through a datapad.

If the two spies had not been so depressed they would have rolled their optics. This was one of the oldest intimidation tactics in the bookfile and both of them had been well trained not to respond to either 'good enforcer, bad enforcer' or 'pretend to read the subjects' files at length so they crack under guilty pressure'.

After a while of enduring the silence, the bonded couple began to converse over the bond again. They tried to devise some viable plan of escape, but there were no options. The hopelessness was enough to make Splashdown crack from anger and anguished despair. What point was there in holding back information from the Autobots when it would not save their youngling.

"It's your fault." he spat at the black and white. "It's all your fault and I will hold you responsible till the day my frame grays in deactivation."

Prowl raised an optic ridge. "What, precisely, is my fault? That you are spies? It that you were caught?"

Splashdown shook his helm. "That my youngling will die before his time."

Amazingly, the Praxian showed no response, emotional or otherwise. He looked at them calmly and said simply. "Explain."

All of the stress, worry, and anger seemed to overflow in that one moment and the green and blue mech let it out the only way he could, through speech. "We were the only true neutrals you know. We're hydromechs, lived out by the Rust Sea. We were peaceful and open to everyone! 'Con, 'Bot, whatever, we accepted everyone as long as there was no fighting. But then *he came."

You know the 'Cons only have like three femme in their whole army and all of them are sadistic of the first degree. Strika though, is the worst. There's something wrong in *his programming. *He would willingly torture sparkling to force the creators to do his bidding and..."

The hydromech stopped for a moment, caught up in the memory. Turbulence, resigning himself to his bonded's choice to talk took up the tale. "The 'Cons killed four of our village’s younglings publicly before our elders surrendered. One... one of them... was our eldest youngling. We... we begged the 'Cons to give us more time to convince the elders... but they said we'd had enough time already."

Both spies' helms were drooping in the refreshed grief as the blue hydromech continued. "I watched my creation be terminated and there was nothing I could do to stop it."

They were crying now, the coolant tears splashing down their cheekstruts in great drops as their sorrow consumed them. Prowl just sat there, stoic, unresponsive. Splashdown recovered first and finished their testimony. "After we surrendered, the 'Cons rounded us up and took us to Tarn. They separated out all the sparkling and younglings, and identified who belonged to which creators. They told us that our creations were being held hostage to ensure our cooperation. The 'Cons would take care of our creations as long as we did our jobs well. We agreed carte blanche, anything to protect our sparklings. Then they trained us to be spies."

The hydromech sat back, his anger drained with the cathartic confession leaving only weariness and sorrow behind. Their Iranian observer waited a moment to make sure they were finished, then arose and left with his assistant.

The bonded pair watched them go and wept in silence.

_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_

In the room next door to the interrogation room, Blackshot, Jazz and his team, a large group of technicians, the femmes, and the Prime, who arrived back in Iacon early, watched the spies through the oneway wall. They witnessed the entire testimonial and now waited for the questioners to rejoin them that they might compare notes.

Prowl and his partner entered the room and they began the analysis. The SIC spoke first. "This was not what was expected, but I cannot yet draw a conclusion. Nightbeat, what were your observations?"

The blue and yellow mech looked thoughtful for a moment and then answered. "Their facial markers were all genuine and what body language could come through showed no lies. However, I would want more evidence before I trusted their story fully. The tale was too broad and the lies could be in the missing details."

"True, just because it sounds level, doesn't mean its not hiding something." replied Blackshot. "I would suggest asking them where there village was at the least. The records here would hold enough history to at least verify that part if their story."

"We also need ta get tha names o' those otha spies from 'em. Tha's not optional." said Jazz.

Then Bumblebee weighed in. "Yes, but does, we need to consider just what we will be willing to counteroffer if what they say is true. We can't just ask them for this information without anything to reward them. They'll just seal up and we will get nothing."

The femme and Blaster all agreed with Bumblebee which left Mirage to yield the last opinion. "I for one, would rather not step into a trap based on the untrustworthy word of a pair of caught spies. I speak from experience when I say our kind will put forth anything that will save our plating from the enemy without compromising secrets."

Prowl nodded and offered the final analysis. "My battlecomputer predicts a 12% chance that the captured mecha speak the truth. However, should we acquire the designations of the other supposed spies, that number might increase exponentially or be dispelled entirely. This course of action is the one I would recommend."

They all turned to the Prime for a verdict and Optimus answered. "I thank you one and all for your concern and careful though in your approach to this matter. But the Matrix has declared to me that they speak truly. He and I are of one meta and we wish to rescue the innocents that are being so cruelly used by our opponents. Prowl, my friend, here is what I wish for you to tell them..."

_-*-_-*-_-*-_-*-_

The pair looked up as the door reopened and the Praxian resumed his seat. His partner was not with him this time and the two absently wondered why. They had reached a point in their emotional outflow where they functioned in a vague, haze of numbness and all external stimuli was viewed with an observational mental framework.

Prowl stared at them for a moment as he had before, but this time he broke the silence first. "My Prime is inclined to believe you. We would like to rescue your youngling and all the other hostages, as well as offer you amnesty. Though you have irreparably broken the trust that the Autobots placed in you, we all understand the lengths to which a creator will go to save that which they have brought forth into the world. In order to fulfil our promise however, we will need the designations of the other spies and all the details you can offer regarding the location in which the younglings are being held. It will also aid our efforts if we were to know their designations, that they might not be afraid of us, and their ages so we can have enough transport for those who cannot transform."

The spies sat stunned, flabbergasted beyond measure, then their faceplates hardened. "You're lying. You just want the names of the other spies! It doesn't matter to you if our younglings function or deactivate!" Splashdown shouted.

Prowl regarded him with a calm demeanor. "Everything I have said to you is the truth. It is up to you to believe it or not. If you wish, I can give you some time to think it over in the brig, but every joor you delay is a joor in which the Decepticons might discover your capture."

Their optics widened in fear and a quick discussion was held over their bond. Then Turbulence spoke. "Let's say for a klik that we accept and give you the info you want. Let's also say that you came through on your end of the bargain. That leaves us and the rest of our brethren alone to be hunted by vengeful 'Cons! We'd be worse off than we are now!"

The Praxian had considered this concern already and gave the solution he had formulated with the permission of his Prime. "My Prime is prepared and willing to provide transport off world to one of the lesser known colonies out of the way of Decepticon patrols. Your transfer out would be hidden as part of s normal supply shipment to one of our suppliers. The Decepticons would never know and you would be safe."

The bonded hydromechs considered this with a jaded meta and made their choice. "We will accept with a caveat. We will give you all the information you require, however, we will not release the designations of the other spies until the younglings are delivered to us safely."

Prowl nodded his helm in acceptance if their stipulation and the door opened to reveal several guards. "These mecha will escort you to the brig. We shall call upon you shortly for the necessary data. If you have need of anything you have only to ask, within reason of course."

The two spies were unclasped and escorted out quietly.


	16. To Rescue the Innocent

As it turned out, the spies had very little to offer by way of location information. They had never seen where the younglings had been taken and there was little hope of locating the detainment center before the hydromechs' capture was discovered. The bonded mechs had offered up the bi-vornly vidclips they were sent to prove their mechling's continued existence, but even that was a slim hope.

The ops team poured over the images and vidfiles trying to find some details that would identify the location of where the bitlets were being held. Steeljaw made the first breakthrough when he found a vidclip that accidentally bounced up beyond the prison wall for a moment allowing a view of the camp's surroundings. It was a momentary flash, like the recorder had been jostled or bumped, and when frozen on that tiny snippet of time, it showed a distinctive three-chimneyed factory in the background. Mirage caught the next one by accident when he commented that the sanitation status of the camp must be truly deplorable to have such a vermin infestation. No one thought anything of his comment at first until Jazz nearly leapt over the table to rewind the footage. There, on the screen, plain as light, was a solitary glitchmouse.

It did not seem like an important discovery and everyone was about to call the medics to sedate the bouncing saboteur until he promised to explain.

"Ah'm jumpin' cuz there are no critters in Tarn." he said.

It was true. Tarn was an industrial district much like Kaon, but the difference was in their wares. Kaon had produced most of the raw energon bases, additives, and base products used by the rest of the planet for most everything from food to textiles; however, Tarn produced construction materials, armor upgrades, basic equipment, and the like. The difference in edible products versus inedible products also showed in the vermin density of the city. Tarn had always had a lower mechanimal population than most of the planet, but the presence of the lower lifeforms had become nonexistent soon after Shockwave took over control of the city during the Golden Age. He had cited it as a product of his superior management back in the orn, but everymech knew now that it was his experimentation that caused the population to dwindle so dramatically.

The only place in Tarn that still hosted any kind of mechanimal life was the smelting pits. Now, they were not The Smelting Pits, those belonged to Kaon, but after Shockwave decided that it was illogical to waste precious resources to ship expendables all the way to Kaon for disposal he had a smaller version sunk into the planet's surface for his own use.

Those pits were one of the least guarded segments of the city, after all, who wanted to risk a fight where one wrong step or shove ended up in a slow, horrific deactivation. The presence of glitchmice in the detainment compound told them that it was near those molten death traps and brought them that much closer to rescuing the helpless younglings.

It was their last clue, none of the other clips revealed anything else, but Prowl was confident that his department could identify the location from those two points alone with reasonable accuracy. Six joor later he presented the finalized infiltration plan. For this mission Spec Ops was pulling in mecha that were normally outside their department, but there would be no advantage left out simply because a mech was not one of them. The final line up had Solaris and Jazz as joint team leaders and the team exited in the midst of the dark-cycle through the femmes' territory.

The tunnels let them out right on the edge of the outlands and from there they took two sparked ground transports across the wastes. The journey was a long one and Jazz soon became bored with the tedium. Many of the others were too jittery to be proper company or had dropped into recharge to wait out the long ride so the saboteur made his way into the cockpit to see if their ride would be interested in some friendly conversation.

"Hey there mah mech, jus' wan'ed ta thank ya fo' doin' us this favor on such short notice." Jazz began.

"Tis nah problem. Ah've 'elped them lil femmies fer vorns n's nah ah burden." replied the mech. "Ah run bah thah mon'ker o' Sandslider, bu' mah friends call meh Slider."

The Polyhexian nodded in acceptance of the indirect offer of congeniality. "Slider it is then. So, ya accent's familiah, were ya sparked in Perihex?"

"Aye," came the pleased reply, “nah maneh ootside o' thah tri-cities would know thah. Yoo from one o' those?"

"Polyhex, northern sector." The black and white offered amicably.

The transport hummed and silence fell over them for a few kliks. Then Jazz spoke again. "So, what do tha femmes have on ya tha' ya would take on such a dangerous job?"

"Nah lev'rage, jus' friendship. Them lil'uns foun' meh aftah mah former mastah lef' meh fo' dead out here. Ah've been truckin' them about evah since."

"Ya don' mind it any?" asked Jazz curiously.

The transport chuckled. "Nah, free main'tnance, more friends'n Ah c'n count, protection even when Ah dunna need it, n' moar en'gon than Ah've ‘ad undah any mastah previous. Ah'm happieh than ah scraplet in'ah salvage yard."

"Oh, Ah see." The saboteur paused to take that statement in and went with the least likely subject to be painful. "Have ya had many masters?"

"Yes." the shuttle seemed almost reluctant to speak on the subject and Jazz feared he had chosen poorly. "Ah ‘ave served uneh fou'teen diff'rent mecha in sev'ral citeh-states."

The Polyhexian scooted down in his chair to be more comfortable now that he had found an appropriate line of conversation that should last a minimally lengthy time. "Wha's'it like ta travel so much?"

"Always somethin' new ta see oot there. Ah've lived in eleven cities un'er mah mastahs. 'Cep fo' thah block'eads it's been a mostleh peaceful 'xistence. Ah've seen thah wildest o' thah wilds n' the loneliest canyons n' tunnels. Ah've seen mechan'mals thah most onleh know as myths n' flora thah'd take ya ventin' away it's so beaut'ful. Ah've seen thah good parts o'ah citeh n' thah bad parts too."

Jazz smiled, "Sounds like ya love ya job."

"Aye laddy, thah Ah do."  
*…*…*…*…*  
The approach to Tarn was completed on pede as the ground was too open to allow Sandslider to sneak close enough. The twenty mech team piled their way through the outlying rubble with ever increasing caution, ducking into crevices and openings whenever a patrol came near. There were a few close calls when some of the guards decided to stop for some target practice near the beginning of the industrial sector on the south side of the smelting pits, but finally they made it through.

The biggest unknown was coming up on them, for they had no intel on the security arrangements of the camp and therefore had to proceed even more cautiously. Prowl had planned for this unknown though, and it was up to Mirage and Hound to scout out the area. Jazz gave them the signal to move out and where there had been two mechs was now empty space and a large maintenance drone.

The drone moved off slowly towards the high wall surrounding the compound and Jazz could sense the null space that indicated Mirage moving to the south corner. Time seemed to pass extra slowly during the mechs' absence and the saboteur found himself growing anxious with every klik that passed by without the return of his friends. It took the spy and holography master almost a joor to get back to the team's hiding place and in the interim the others had begun a game of pick-up sticks. The two brought back better news than expected on the subject of prison security.

"There are nine guards in total," Mirage reported. "One in each of the four corner towers, one at the gates in an exterior booth, and four that patrol the walls. Cameras are minimal outside the compound and all the armaments seem to be focused on keeping the prisoners in rather than protecting the prison from attack."

Hound nodded in agreement, "I made it inside using the drone entry, the cameras increase in frequency closer to the interior, but the whole setup is controlled from a small security center located west of the gate in a recessed bunker. The walls themselves actually double as a bunk house for the soldiers and the only entry hall into the facility winds through those rooms. I was unable to get into the prison section because there was no drone access."

"I was." Mirage supplied. "There is a changing of the guard every four joor and I was able to sneak through the gate when the new soldier exited to replace the booth guard. The interior is completely open and there is only one small stand alone bunkhouse for the sparklings to all share. The eating areas are completely open to the view of the guards and it appears that the younglings have been used as free labor for Shockwave's weapons factories. There were only six of the forty-seven younglings present and given that they all were berth-ridden, I can conclude that the healthy members are still working outside."

Jazz turned to Smokescreen, who had been sent along as the tactician-on-site. "Whacha think mah mech?"

The blue and red Praxian considered it for a moment. "I recommend we use option delta of subplan theta in accordance with the original guidelines as supplied by Prowl, but change it up to focus on the security center."

They were going to be vulnerable to detection for a few moments while they discussed the details of the plan, and they could not use their comms this close to an enemy stronghold without exposing their position, so Jazz yielded the briefing to Solaris while he used his heightened audials to listen for patrols.

The femme triplechanger motioned everyone closer so that *he could whisper. "Everyone knows this plan forwards and backwards, so all that needs to be mentioned are the changes. We will wait until dusk when the solar-powered factories cease their activity for the orn and the prisoners are returned for the night. The security center is first priority, if we can take control of that we will retains the element of surprise. Assassins will be inserted first via Hound to deal with any soldiers between us and our objective. That means Bumblebee, Chromia, and Derringer, ya'll need to get ready now. Everyone else will go in under cloak with Mirage. He will be linked with Grimoire to boost his phase disruptor enough to cover us all. Rest up mechs, we move in six joor."

Instructions embedded firmly in their metas they all settled in for several more rounds of pick-up sticks and short naps until they could enact their rescue.


	17. The Great Escape

Chapter 17:  
It was well into the dark-cycle before Frenetic, the team scout, reported that the younglings were on their way back. Being held by Shockwave was never pleasant, but given the mech's dedication to logic it would be better than elsewhere. The mono-opticked cannon-former had not been permitted to use the mechlings as subjects for his experiments, but labor was not experimentation. Shockwave's sense of efficiency also meant he ensured the prisoners got the minimum of recharge to maintain optimal output, otherwise the younglings might never have been allowed out of the factories.

As soon as the weary group trudged into view through the wreckage Solaris gave the signal for the assassins. One by one the three deadly mecha took turns going with Hound to the service entrance under the guise of maintenance drones. Once inside they split up and prepared to take out the inner guard.

Derringer snuck up through the nearest staircase until *he reached the wall. Once there *he nestled into the corner behind the door and waited. Derringer would provide sniper support for the team's four sharpshooters, all of whom had gotten into position outside a joor earlier. Grimoire should have been the one in this position, but the greater need for *him as a power-booster relegated the job to the next best mech. Derringer was slightly disappointed that *he would get less deactivations than the other assassins, but a job was a job.

Bumblebee took to the vents, crawling through the dark, dusty tubes as they made their meandering way across the prison perimeter. He had to use a magnetic mod in his servos and peds to move along the ceiling a few times to avoid the tiny cleaner drones, which while normally harmless, nothing Shockwave ever built or commissioned was ever without danger. The minibot had to pause numerous times in his journey to avoid detection by passing soldiers under the few vent gratings, for although his systems had been upgraded by Ops to run silently, a motion detector would still register him. Eventually he made it to his destination in front of the security center where he settled to wait.

Chromia did not move from their entry point as *he was going to take whatever fools chose to stick their helms out when the fireworks started. A feral grin lit *his features, none of the Decepticons would know what had hit them.

Hound returned to outside and chose a high vantage point where he could act as a spotter for the northside sniper. Once in position he disguised himself as just another piece of fallen rubble and waited.  
*:*:*:*:*:*  
While the assassins were getting into place, so also were the others. Grimoire and Mirage linked up via a thick power cable between their chestplates and, to ensure they would not be separated, the femme looped *his arm around the spy's midsection. Normally, the blue mech could hide up to three mecha besides himself, if they remained motionless, but with the femme acting as a power pack he would easily be capable of cloaking all ten infiltrators while moving. The group positioned itself next to the roadway and went silent. They would only have a short window through which to get inside and no one wanted to miss it. The gate opened as the prisoners came around the last bend. The ops team dashed through, knowing that the gates would not remain open past the last mechling.

Once inside the open courtyard they moved as one to the single doorway into the soldiers' quarters. It was locked at the moment, but there were two soldiers near it guarding a stack of energon rations presumably for the younglings. The two would need to return to the wall interior at some point and that would be the ops team's entryway.

As the younglings filed in they walked by the energon and each received half a cube for their ration. Mirage could feel Grimoire's plating bristle and knew that if he could see the others theirs would be the same. Not that he could blame them, a healthy youngling could, and would, consume between three and four cubes of energon an orn. The mechlings had been starved for who knew how long, and the obvious signs of deprivation were present in all of them.

The team held themselves in check though, knowing that prematurely triggering the attack out of anger would only get them all killed, or worse, captured for Shockwave's pleasure. It took twenty kliks for all of the prisoners to receive a ration and then the soldiers turned back to exit the compound. The cloaked Autobots followed and entered behind the unaware guards. The door opened into a three-way hallway junction. Mirage informed them that the left and right halls led around the wall interiors, while the center corridor led to the stairs for the upper walk-about.

They camped themselves at the edges of the spy's extended disruption field, covering as much of the junction as possible, and then Solaris signaled the assassins.  
*:*:*:*:*:*:*  
Bumblebee registered the ping to go and removed the grate for the vent. There were two guards stationed in front of the security room that he had to take out before he could properly hack the door and he drew a long energon knife from his subspace as he position himself over the leftmost soldier. The minibot dropped, plunging the dagger down through the mech's shoulder at the precise angle to sever both his motor control column and his main powerline to his spark. The guard collapsed in a heap, spark slowly fading. The guard's compatriot stood there in shock as Bumblebee yanked his knife free and spun swiftly to decapitate him. The yellow assassin knew that the camera over the Security Center could see him and as he began the process to override the door he could only hope that the others were able to provide enough of a distraction that his actions went unnoticed.

Derringer received the ping and raised *his rifle. The femme waited momentarily for the first sniper shots to drive the wall guards to *him. The shots were not long in coming. Four soft "pfft' sounds were the only warning the soldiers had as the high-powered lasers dispersed through their sparks. The north and west wall guards, along with the south and east tower guards all fell into the inner compound, deactivated. The remaining mecha immediately hunkered down, taking them out of sight of the snipers. That was Derringer's cue. *He leveled *his sight on the nearest soldier, and shot him. Between the outer snipers and *himself, all the guards fell within a few kliks. It bothered the femme that the alarm never rang out, surely at least one of the fallen had been able to notify the Security Center about the incursion, but *he had no time to question it further. More guards would most certainly be coming to investigate and *he needed to focus on preparing for them.

Chromia stepped out of the drone entrance as soon as *he received the ping and immediately opened fire on the few soldiers wandering the halls. *His cannons were silenced like the rest of the ops team's weapons, but their larger output still made an audible 'whump' every time they were fired. It attracted the attention of a few more soldiers who found deactivation at cannon-point, and eventually all of the guards in the area were lying at the femme's peds. *He went down the hall, from room to room, clearing each of any more remaining soldiers until *he reached the main junction. Chromia sent a soft ping to alert the main group of *his proximity before stepping out, it would not do after all to get shot by *his own side after taking out half the enemy garrison unharmed.

Jazz and Solaris waited for alarm to sound as they heard mecha fall throughout the prison, but it never came. Their group removed at least twenty or so soldiers from the functioning as the enemy mecha had to cross their junction to reach the commotion that Chromia was creating. When the blue femme reached them they split in two, the larger group went with Solaris to finish clearing the prison, while the smaller group went with Jazz to mech the Security Center.  
*:*:*:*:*:*:*:*  
Bumblebee finished overriding the door and slid it open just far enough to slip through. He ducked behind the end console just as on of the three soldiers looked up to see why the door was opening. The confused mech walked over to see why the door was malfunctioning and just as he made it to the doorway, where the offline frames of the guards could clearly be seen, Bumblebee shot him. It was a clean hit through the spark chamber, but the minibot did not wait to see the mech fall, instead turning to fire upon the remaining two who were pulling out blasters to defend themselves. The yellow assassin managed to get the first through the shoulder, but both of the enemy soldiers managed to dive behind cover before he could get a proper bead on them.

A few kliks later the firefight was still going strong, and Bumblebee knew that he had to offline the soldiers soon, before anymore damage was done to the room's equipment. Two of the consoles were smoking wrecks from the laser blasts being traded back and forth, and the opsmech could only hope that they were redundant to the overall function of the Security Center. A ping over his comm alerted him to the proximity of his teammates and he sent a double ping back to tell them to be cautious.  
The Decepticons were so intent on deactivating Bumblebee that they did not notice the sight of a mech crawling through the top of the door and across the ceiling. Jazz was having a ball, it was not often that he got a chance to utilize his magnetic servo and ped mods. The saboteur positioned himself directly behind the 'Cons, then dropped. As soon as he landed he flicked out his servos and sliced through the enemy mechs' neck cables with his claws. The two fell, gurgling as their vents became clogged with energon and rapidly losing motor control as their life-fluids puddled around them.

The opsmecha ignored the graying frames and began the takeover of the prison's security systems. They soon discovered why their had been no alarm. It was a silent pulse, and according to the routine test logs the response time for reinforcements from Shockwave's tower was twenty kliks. The alarm had already been ringing for five.

Blaster swiftly hooked himself into the room's systems to see if he could perhaps trick the alarm into appearing as a glitch or false-read on the other side. Jazz pinged Solaris with an short-band update and received a confirmation ping in return that indicated all levels had been cleared. The Autobots now held control of the prison, however short that possession might be. The black femme could be seen on the monitors leading *his group to the interior access to gather up the soon to be rescued sparklings.  
*:*:*:*:*:*:*:*  
Chromia exited the walls first, carefully looking around for any Decepticons who might have been missed in the compound itself, but all was clear. *His fellow Queen was guarding *his back and when the all clear was signalled they moved forward swiftly. The younglings had already finished their energon and retired to the open-walled bunkhouse, so it made it easier to confirm that all of them were present. Forty-seven berths were filled under the meager shelter and all of the young Cybertronians were in recharge. The opsmecha were loath to wake them after the orn they must have just finished, but there was no other choice.

The Autobots went around and gently nudged awake each youngling until all of them were coherent and attentive, or at least as much as they could be. Most of them were frightened by the sight of the strangers and several of them had grouped together on single berths for comfort. Solaris stepped into the center of the shelter and addressed the gathering.

"Please be calm. We are Autobots and we have been sent on behalf of your creators to rescue you." The cheer the small mechs let out reverberated against the steel of the prison walls, and the triplechanger smiled. "We are not out of Tarn yet younglings, so I must ask that you try to be as quiet as you can during our exodus from this place."

A blue and yellow minibot youngling stepped forward and gave an antiquated bow. "I am Seaspray." he said in a gurgling voice that immediately identified him as Turbulence's creation. "What do we need to do?"

"You just need to run when we tell you and stay still when we tell you. We have a transport on the edge of the city and if we can make It there we will be home-free."

The younglings all looked about excitedly, but Seaspray held up a servo for quiet.  
"Six of our number are bed-ridden and four more have damaged peds and can only hobble. We will not leave them behind." said the minibot with stubborn determination.

Chromia came forward and knelt in front of the small mechling, "We'd not expect yah to. Our tacticians predicted that many of yah'd be incapable of travel an' we're gonna carry those'n who can't motor-on themselves."

Then the femme moved out of the way for two medics they were now glad they had brought along. Fixit and Arclight checked over all the bitlets and ensured that they would at least be well enough to make it to the transports for further treatment. When they were done Solaris pinged Jazz. *He was surprised when *he received a full comm-link connection in reply and immediately came to the conclusion that secrecy was no longer one of their advantages.

-:-Blasta' wasn' able ta fake out tha alarms. We got seven kliks 'fore company gets here.-:-

-:-Understood, the sparklings are ready for travel, we will meet you at the service entrance in two kliks.-:-

-:-Copy tha'. See ya there.-:-

The line closed and the triplechanger conveyed the bad news to *his portion of the team. "Incoming in seven, let's move mechs!"  
*:*:*:*:*:*:*:*  
The journey out of the prison went off without a hitch and despite only having a five klik helm-start while moving with short-legged mechlings, there had been so sightings of their pursuers. The ops team knew better than to think the tower guard too lackadaisical to investigate the alarm, not under Shockwave's iron rule. The problem was, if the Decepticons could not be seen or heard behind them, were they set up already in a strategic ambush somewhere between the smelting pits and the true edge of the city?

Halfway through the vast array of pits they had their answer. Contrary to common sense, the purple cannon-former had set up an entire garrison of Decepticons along the narrow paths. All the paths.

They were surrounded.


	18. Flight and Paranoia

Chapter 18:  
As Jazz looked around at the mecha surrounding his group he could only think of the younglings. The bitlets had been through so much and their hope all but lost. For freedom to be offered and then cruelly removed was unconscionable.

Their little group had taken what defensive shelter could be found in the cast off of the pits. When frames and broken equipment were tossed in, not everything melted, there were always a few parts that were resistant to destruction in even those extreme temperatures. In this case the ops team got lucky, the shell of an old mining transport was lying half out of the molten sludge and its high density plating, necessary for the craft to survive the depths of their planet's core, would provide adequate cover for at least one side. Chromia and Solaris found another piece of a transport sticking out of the pit and dragged it up to serve as their back line. The team knew there was no way out, not with so many mecha between them and freedom, so they resolved to at least make it costly for the Decepticons to retrieve their former prisoners.

Blaster watched with a resigned calm as the enemy approached their meager shelter with cautious intent. He was glad now, that he had decided to leave his cassettes at Iacon, for at least this way they would continue to function. His bitlets would hurt for a long while after his bond with them was broken, and he could only hope that his deactivation would warrant the recall of his brother so that the mechlets would have someone appropriate to care for them as they mourned. The 'Cons were within shooting range now and as the plasma began to fly he began his own form of attack. He reached out in a mental caress that when latched onto an unsuspecting meta would turn the mech's frame controls over to the cassette-master with little choice for his victim. Blaster did not like using his gift, he always felt as though he were violating the most sacred part of mecha when he did so, but here, at the likely end of his functioning, he would do anything in his power to get the chance to return to his family. However, when he reached out, he found nothing. No thoughts, no detectable sentience, and when he probed deeper, no sparks.

Blaster threw open the commlines with his team. ::They're drones! Repeat, the enemy is not sparked!::

There was a momentary lull in the Autobots return fire as they registered that information, then they began again. This time though, when they fired, it was not to hit spark or the processor that surrounded the fiery life. No, instead they aimed lower, at the abdomen, where a drone's processing center was carefully housed for maximum protection. Jazz took over the comm for a more precise method of dealing with the mech look-a-likes. ::'Raj, take Canvass and find the controllers for the drones.::

The noble nodded his helm and swept up the tiniest of the femme snipers as he disappeared. They would hunt down the mecha directing the actions of the unsparked masses, and in removing them, would also remove the drones' ability to act against the Autobots. In the mean time the rest of the ops team would protect the vulnerable younglings with everything they had, and with the swell of new hope their fighting became that much more fierce.  
:*:*:*:*:*:*:  
Mirage could not decide if his luck was good fortune or bad omen. The control mecha had been relatively easy to find despite that they had obviously put great effort into hiding. The Decepticons in question had hidden among the underground refinement pools where the melted slag from above was separated out into its purified basic elements. The pools were hotter burning than the pits and logically should have disguised the heat signatures of the enemy. However, the pools burned so high that the 'Cons showed up instead as cool zones.

Once discovered it should have been easy to take out the drone operators, but, in an uncharacteristic showing of intelligence, the Decepticons had stationed themselves at extreme distances from one another. This puzzled Mirage as much as it frustrated him. The drone armies operated best when their handlers functioned as a hivemind, but at such distance it was impossible for the 'Cons to be linked. The Autobot spy supposed that Shockwave had chosen to value lesser vulnerability over greater military might.

Whichever the reason, it still left the noble and his femme companion in a quandary. They needed to take out all five handlers at once or risk one of the still functioning sending out a distress call. Most likely the simultaneous deactivation of the five would alert someone in Shockwave's tower, but hopefully it would place the Decepticons at enough of a temporary disadvantage that the ops team could escape.

Mirage considered returning to the team's entrenched position to borrow some explosives from Jazz, but then Canvass nudged him in the side, pointing to something that looked very promising. The two of them exchanged grins and moved forward.

:*:*:*:*:*:*:

Ger-13 was firmly embedded in his network of drones and he grinned gleefully as one of his puppets took down another of the intruders. His cohortmates, Ger-11, -9, -14, and -16, were similarly engaged and somewhere along the way they had all slipped a little too much into the conflict on the upper level. It was for this reason that none of them heard the clicking noise of the emergency release valves being rerouted to vent out into the walkway hubs they occupied. In fact, so engrossed were they that it was almost a full klik before any of them registered just what the loud klaxon blaring about them signified. Their last thoughts were all varying depths of 'oh slag'.

:*:*:*:*:*:*:

Bumblebee did not believe they could last much longer. Almost a third of their number was injured beyond the ability to fight and the drones were still coming. Their group had pulled the half-slagged cargo crawlers closer together to protect their weakening defensive line, but all of them knew that if Mirage did not pull through they were all lost. The drones were preparing to charge again and Bumblebee resigned himself to an honorable end in the defense of innocent younglings.

Then the drones dropped.

All of the unsparked hordes just fell, great heaps of them overbalancing into the smelters, and apart from the bubbling hiss of fresh fuel in the pits, all was suddenly silent. It was deafening to the ops team after the cacophony of noise the battle had been. They looked out in joyous disbelief at their improbable victory and as Mirage and Canvass reappeared from their hunt the team gave out a triumphant cheer.  
:*:*:*:*:*:*:  
It was taking too long. Sandslider wanted to pace, but doing so would ruin the camouflage the opsmecha had so painstakingly given him to protect him from capture. Just as he was preparing to through safety to the wind and go after his friends, the team came rushing through the debris. They were running flat out, every one of them laden down with younglings or injured mecha, and Sandslider revved his engine for a quick take off, noting his fellow shuttle doing the same. The Autobots fairly flung themselves into the transports and the hatches slammed shut as soon as the last was aboard. The reason for their flight quickly became evident as a horde of flight drones came pelting through the ruins after them. The two shuttles did not dawdle and were soon speeding away as fast as their engines could take them.  
:*:*:*:*:*:*:  
Prowl felt odd. He could not explain it nor could he characterize it. When it did coalesce into a discernible feeling, it was nothing more than a niggling sensation that something, somewhere, was not going According to Plan. The Praxian triple-checked all his datawork, the base newsline, even pinged Smokescreen for an update of the base gossip. Nothing. He went further and requested status updates from all the Autobot held territories and bases. Still nothing. Then he pinged Blackshot for an overview of all ongoing missions, though he knew doing such would only increase the mech's opinion that he was overly controlling. It did not matter, something was going wrong, he knew it was, and it was his job to fix it. Blackshot did not reply to hails over the comm, though Prowl knew he would not, and instead, sauntered through the Tactical Department a few kliks later like he owned the place.

The black mech sat down in Prowl's guest chair without even a by-your-leave and tossed the SIC a datapad. "The update you requested, sir."

Prowl perused the data, but all was well, no alerts from any of the active agents. He huffed shortly through his vents, irritated with himself for allowing such an illogical thing as a bad feeling to waste so much of his time, and set the pad down. "Thank you Blackshot, that will be all."

The Ops commander just arched an optic ridge at his superior. "Is it? Because in my experience, when the chief tactical officer tears through his faction's networks on a hunt, however subtle, it usually means something other than curiosity."

Prowl was not going to even entertain the thoughts of how the black mech knew what he had been doing all light-cycle, and instead chose to deny the implication his subordinate had suggested. "It was nothing General, merely the paranoia of a tactician making itself known needlessly. You need not worry about it, my concerns have all been allayed."

Blackshot crossed his arms and scootched further down in his chair. "That's too bad, sir. Especially since I have already ordered a complete aerial survey of the accessible portions of the planet, and the satellites should be finished with the compilation any klik now."

Prowl frowned and did his best not yield to the urge to pinch his olfactory ridge. "Fine. Since the survey is so close to being finished I will review it for pertinent data, however, it would be prudent to ask permission next time General."

Blackshot just smirked and left the tactician's office.  
:*:*:*:*:*:  
They were running out of time. The land-based shuttles were just not fast enough to outrun the aerial drones. The second one, Scooter, had already taken a hit to his left engine and was falling behind. The ops team had tried to help their large transports by clambering out onto the hulls to give cover fire, but their were just too many drones. It was starting to look grim and this time the ops team had no way out, no contingency plan that could give them a chance. It stung bitterly to have made it so close to safety and yet still failed. They could see Iacon off on the horizon and it gleamed in the fading lights of their stars in a mockery of hope.

Hound was on point on Sandslider to try and give the shuttles aid in picking out the best routes across the wasteland when he happened to notice something odd about the horizon. There was something moving in the air to the left of Iacon and he sent a ping to the shuttlemech to scan it for identification. 

The results had him frantically attempting to comm Jazz. ::Sir, we have seekers incoming!::

::Ours or theirs.:: the saboteur replied.

::Unknown sir, they are too far out for faction ID.::

Hound received an affirmation ping and then Jazz opened the broad-band comm that spoke to all members of the team. ::Attention mechs, we got incomin'. Prelims say its seekers, but no faction known. If we're gonna go down this orn then let's make it hurt. It's been an honor servin' wit'cha all. Jazz out.::

It was strange. Solaris thought as *he watched *his co-leader give out orders. When their functioning is forfeit and they have nothing left to lose, mecha become some of the most fearsome opponents.

It was true. The Autobots became almost reckless in their daring and determination to take down as many enemy units as possible before their ends. They had chipped off at least a third of their pursuers over the course of their flight, but in their current desperation they managed to add at least another fifth to that deactivation count. Every so often though, each of the opsmecha would venture a glance over their shoulder at the incoming flyers.

The seekers were closing in fast.


	19. There and Back Again

Chapter 19:  
::General Thundercall to command, all trines and flights in position, and target acquired. Awaiting your permission.::

::Acknowledged General, this is Command. The mission is go, repeat, the mission is go. Fly swift and may the sky bow to your dominion.::

The dark grey and blue-black seeker acknowledged the tradition flyer's send-off and transmitted his orders to his troops. ::Alpha trines high and tight for ramrod maneuver. Beta and omega flights give the alphas a wide pincer to target. Theta trines hang back, you will cover any escapees.::

A dozen different affirmations were his reply as the seekers took their positions. They looked rather like a small cloud of scattered airframes once they were all in place, but it was all very precisely coordinated. They launched forward as one and closed the distance to their opponents in a mere ten kliks. The seekers descended upon their enemy with ventilation-taking swiftness.

The seekers were outnumbered by their opponents, but their air superiority gave them the advantage. The battle took over a joor to end, but when it was over the enemy lay shattered on the ground, the seekers victorious in the sky.

Thundercall led his trine to circle the larger of the two landspeeders where the deliriously happy opsmecha could see his Autobot sigil clearly. ::Autobot Air Commander, General Thundercall, to team commanders. We have been sent to escort you in, have you any wounded severe enough to need an airlift?::

::Air Commander, this is team leader Solaris, your presence is a Primus-sent blessing. Welcome and thank you. We have four amongst our injured who will not survive if they do not reach Medical in the next half-joor. Have you anyone who can fly them to Iacon fast enough?::

::We do team leader. Halt your procession at that rocky outcrop ahead and we will make the transfer.::

::Acknowledged Air Commander, by your leave.::

The outcrop in question was a natural protrusion of hyper-mineralized crystal large enough to serve as a small ship dock and it was beneath its overhang that the weary, beaten shuttles finally rested. Thundercall and his trine were the first to land alongside them to assess the damage. Sandslider and Scooter were badly scored by the laser blasts but still functional enough to make it back to Iacon on their own. Just in case however, the Air Commander had them fully refueled and given a good once over by the medics. After the four critical cases were prepped for transfer he personally assisted them to their emergency transports. He assigned his Adepto, Spitfire, to lead them personally, and then bid the remaining opsmecha to refuel for the safe continuing of their journey.

[-][-][-][-][-]

Jazz was not speaking to him. Blaster fidgeted against the bulkhead as he tried, for the fifth time, to engage his friend in conversation to no avail. He gave up and slumped against the wall in resignation. The hostmech knew that this was a possibility when he chose to use his gift, but he had hoped that Jazz would have been open metaed enough to accept his telepathy anyway. Apparently he was wrong.

Blaster tried one more time in futile hope of retaining his friendship with the mech he considered a brother, but the saboteur brushed him off with "Not right now" as the black and white left for the cockpit.

[-][-][-][-][-]

Chromia and Solaris exchanged worried glances. They had watched the entire byplay of the former best friends and they were concerned by the obvious falling out. They knew that life for a Primus-blessed could be difficult, as the majority of the world saw the gift of telepathy as an invasive curse. It made most of the Blessed very secretive about their endowments which in turn created a vicious cycle of persecution and hiding. Nearly all hostmecha were Primus-blessed in one fashion or another, and the few who were not were Vector Sigma Gifted. The femme clades were the exact and equal opposite, being mostly Sigma Gifted, and it was for this reason that they had sought out the last host survivors of Megatron's razing of Polyhex. They were among the few privy to the cassette-masters' secret and knew that they alone were likely to be fully accepting of the burdensome Gift.

Sadly, Blaster was no longer a youngling and the comforting cuddle the two femmes dearly wished to give him would have to wait for a more private setting. Until that point came however, they would settle for reassuring him via their private, femme-only comm frequency.

[-][-][-][-][-]

The remainder of the trip to Iacon was uneventful and the two sparked transports were swiftly docked in the ops hanger bay. The two former spies had been granted a special pass to be present at the disembarking, although the number of guards that supervised them nearly tripled once they entered Blackshot's territory. Seaspray and the other younglings had fairly glued themselves to the windows and as soon as he saw his creators he let out the highest pitched squeal of joy that anymech had ever heard. The opsmechs looked on in relieved amusement as the young mech hopped up and down near the off-ramp in barely contained need to get to his creators.

Sandslider skipped a few of his docking protocols in favor of hurrying the opening of his portal and his was not the only optic to well up with fluid as they watched the little minibot jump-tackle his sire. The rest of the mobile younglings and sparklings crowded around the familiar mechs asking where their creators were. The bonded hydromechs gathered the mechlings to themselves and promised that their creators were on their way as they simultaneously pinged a list of the other spies to Blackshot's comm.

The ops team left the displaced hydroformers to their reunion and headed up to the debriefing room.

[-][-][-][-][-]

When mecha looked at Prowl the first characteristics that came to meta were often stern, impassive, unflappable, and in general degraded down to terms like stick-aft. It would, therefore, have surprised most of them to see just how often the opposite traits occurred behind those stiff mental barriers. Take this moment in particular, Prowl was sitting in the briefing room poised in the perfect image of patient stoicism, but beneath that veneer of calmness lay a fidgety anxious mech who was fairly deactivating from the suspense of delay. It would have caused quite a few processor crashes to see this true Prowl, but he hid it well. Long vorns trauma had seen to that. The interesting question though, would have been why the Praxian was impatient, and it all boiled down to information.

Information was power. It increased the number of accountable variables and decreased the likely deactivation count of the Autobot troops. It allowed for more precise strikes and safer covert missions. It was like finest highgrade energon to the tactician and he reveled in the anticipation of more knowledge. Prowl had already received a much abbreviated report from the Air Commander and the Praxian knew there would be much to garner from this debriefing.

The two team leaders finally entered the room followed by the team tactician and communications expert. The rest of the twenty mech team would submit written reports sometime over the next six joor and only these four would be required to give a verbal report unless specific data was immediately needed.

As soon as the salutations and formalities were taken care of, the team leaders were bid to begin. Despite their technical equal status, Solaris deferred to Jazz as *he had no reference for what style report the Autobots would desire. The black and white Polyhexian stood at ease before the round table and mused for a moment on the number of High Command officers their little mission had attracted. Prowl, Blackshot, and ElitaOne were there as both the primary planners and direct supervisors of the team. However, also with them were Optimus Prime, Ratchet, Ironhide, Ultra Magnus, via vidcomm as he could not leave his post, and every base commander whose stronghold had been host to a hydroformer spy, all on vidcomm as well.

They were all gazing at him in expectation so Jazz re-centered himself and began. "Sirs, it is mah pleasure ta report tha' tha mission objective was 'complished successfully. Tha 'nitial stage o' tha mission was uneventful n' went 'ccording ta plan as did tha prison infiltration. We had'a slight hiccup durin' tha takin' o' th security center as tha assigned assassin wasn' able ta remove tha enemy soldiers 'fore they sent a 'larm ta tha main base. We were forced ta switch ta a contingency 'mergency evac plan n' we grabbed tha younglin's n' hightailed it out o' there. We headed through the smeltin' pits ta get out as Shockers wasn' s'posed ta have aneh troops in there 'ccording ta intel. N', well, fo'give meh fo' bein' bold, but we need ta send someone ta do a better check o' tha' area cuz we were ambushed out'a nowhere by almos' a division's worth o' troops. We thought we were goners so we set up fo' a las' stand, but fortunateleh one o' our team was able ta d'termine tha' tha mechs were actualleh drones."

Ironhide looked particularly perturbed at the idea of fighting drones disguised as mecha and Prowl was actually frowning as he considered how this development could alter the current state of the war. A drone's physiology was vastly different from that of a mech. Where a mech's most vital systems were all gathered around the spark, a drone's were divided between the abdomen and helm. Both areas on a drone had to be destroyed in order to stop it, and firing at the chest area would do neither. Drones were also fairly cheap and easy to make and Prowl almost shuddered when his battle computer spit out the statistics for how swiftly the Autobots would be overrun if Shockwave was able to mass produce the sparkless troops. It was Ratchet however, who addressed the most vital omitted piece of information. "How was the agent able to tell them apart when no one else could?"

Jazz almost broke his parade rest to fidget and he did glance back uncomfortably to Blaster, unsure whether he was permitted to reveal the other's secret. The hostmech rescued his friend from the dilemma by stepping forward to answer the question himself. "Ah'm a telepath. Ah was unable ta detect sparks within 'em an' Ah figured it out from there."

Blaster had braced himself for the fallout of his confession, but it was not quite the total rejection he was expecting. While some of the base commanders did show varying ranges of fear and distrust, the mecha who mattered most seemed largely accepting. The Prime was openly, as much as one can be while wearing a battle mask, happy over the news and Ironhide appeared indifferent. Ratchet and Prowl actually looked upset that they had not been informed sooner, and Ultra Magnus seemed to be of the same meta-set as Ironhide.

Prowl leaned forward, wings twitching minutely in a physical display of his irritation, and scolded the cassette-master. "Why did you not inform us before? Such data would have radically altered the probabilities of the mission's success. According to what I can currently postulate, prior knowledge of your Gift would have potentially lessened the injury and deactivation count by almost fifty percent!"

Blaster gave the upset mech a very sad smile. "Ah did actually, tha first time Ah joined tha Autobots. It... it didn't turn out so well."

Now the Command officers looked confused. "The first time?" queried Ultra Magnus suspiciously.

"Yeah, tha first time. About half a centivorn ago tha leadership of mah clan decided ta have a mech become an Autobot as a sort of agent for'em. Tha femmes were just beginning ta have difficulties getting their Intel ta tha proper sources in tha 'Bots an' tha hope was that tha commanding officers of tha base would see tha value of havin' a telepath at their beck an' call. It... didn't go as planned. They let meh join, but Ah think it was more so they could keep an optic on meh than anythin'. Ah was given the most remote quarters an' every scut duty they could find. Ah ignored it b'cause Ah thought it would get better once they learned Ah was trustworthy, but Ah was, admittedly, naive. The resident soldiers were permitted ta persecute meh an’ Ah was always told ta just ‘suck it up an’ be a mech’. Mah handler finally pulled tha plug when Ah got beat two orns in a row.” Blaster allowed just a bit of his long ago hurts to surface as he looked at the officers before continuing. “Two vorn ago when tha femmes decided ta try integration as a whole it was agreed that mah Gift would stay secret for mah safety.”

Prowl looked distant for a moment as he accessed the Iacon database. “Why do we not have any records of this? All of your data should have been tagged to you regardless of historical age.”

The Polyhexian telepath nodded in understanding. “That’s prolly b’cause Ah was usin’ mah younglin’ name at tha time.”

“You had a different name as a youngling?” asked Major Rhombus of the Perihex outlands base. The mech was well known for indulging in the hobby of studying isolated community sociology and the question was almost expected from him. Optimus too looked interested in the tidbit as it intrigued his own historian nature.

Blaster was just happy to have a distraction from the unpleasant memories and answered readily. “Yes, it is, was, tradition among tha hostmecha clans ta give temporary designations ta their sparklings until their maturation vorn when tha young mecha would get ta choose their own names. Mine was Flashbug.”

The Major nodded in rapt fascination. “I see, what was the determining factor for maturation?”

“Gentlemechs, enough.” Warned Prowl. “Now is not the time. I am sure, Major Rhombus, that Major Blaster would be delighted to have a long conversation with you concerning the intricacies of hostmech society, later. Major Blaster, please rest assured that such mistreatment will never occur to you here in Iacon, at least not while I am Second in Command, and I will deal severely with any that try. Just like I did for your littles. Right now, however, we have a briefing to finish. Agent Jazz, please continue.”

Blaster stepped back, sheepish for getting off track but grateful for the acceptance he should have always had. Jazz began to continue, but then he stopped to think. “Now where was Ah? Oh yeah, so we managed ta get rid o’ tha ‘Con drones by deactivatin’ tha controller mechs, Mirage n’ Canvass should get a commendation fo’ tha’ bit o’ work, n’ then we made a run fo’ tha transports. We knew tha’ ol’ Shockers would send reinforcements when his drones reg’stered offline n’ we wanted ta be far n’ away a’fore tha’. Onleh, tha aerial drones he sent hit us way ‘fore they should have n’ we ended up havin’ ta fight our way out. Tha team was on its last ped when tha Seekahs showed up. Aftah tha’ it was a routine retrieval wit’ nothin’ else ta report.”

The officers finished their notes on Jazz’s statement and then began to gather the supplementary reports from the rest of the team leadership.

[-][-][-][-][-]

Hound was never more glad than the moment when he was allowed off of that transport of femmes. It was a wonder that he had been able to complete the mission without a breakdown, but that success lay mostly at the peds of Mirage. As soon as the scout had been called for the high risk mission he had been prepared to decline based on his inability to work with a femme without freezing up, but Mirage had convinced him to say yes, had told him there was a way to get around his fear. Many mecha had said such things to him before and they never worked, however, there was just something about the spy’s earnestness that made Hound willing to try. Hound knew he was falling in love with the blue noble and he wished to give Mirage at least a chance to do what no one else had managed.

The noble’s solution had been rather ingenious and involved the use of his hologram projectors. They had started by visiting the Medical Wing and convincing one of the medics to tweak his optic settings. Then Mirage helped Hound set up a small bit of coding in his processor that would project a hologram directly into his optics so that only he could see it and another code that would run the holograms until given direction to cease so the scout would not have to worry about concentrating on holding the illusion all the time. The end result was that whenever Hound looked at a femme he saw a plain grounder instead. In his meta he still knew that they were femmes, but without the visual to back it up he did not have a breakdown.

Now that the mission was over he was supposed to go to the Medbay to have his optics set back to normal, but Hound did not want to. He like being able to work with femmes as he always felt like he was being prejudice towards them because of what one femme did. He knew Mirage and the medics would not approve, but he felt it was too successful of a treatment to just throw away. Instead, he was on his way to contact a certain special someone to discuss courting Mirage.


	20. Let's Wrap It Up

Chapter 20:  
After the debriefing the officers returned to the main ops hangar bay. It had taken several joors to receive and discuss all the necessary statements, time which had been more than enough for the Ops Department to retrieve the remaining hydroformers. The noise in the hangar was nearly deafening as the creators were joyously reunited with their offspring.

Normally, such a swift wrap up would not have occurred, and a celebration most certainly would have been in order. However, given the likely retaliation from the Decepticons, time was of the essence. The current plan was to transport the entire contingent to a little known and highly out of the way planet that just happened to be ninety percent water. It would be the perfect environment for the hydroformers for all that it would be useless, and therefore passed over, to all other Cybertronians. The journey to it would be as long as it would be circuitous to throw off any followers. The Tactical Division estimated a high chance of success, but the percentages dropped with every joor the Autobots delayed.

Optimus Prime stepped forward to address the thirty-seven families with a large smile on his hidden face and the Matrix thrumming within him in approving pleasure. “My fellow Cybertronians, it pleases me to see you so happy, but the task of your retrieval is not yet finished. If you stay in Iacon or even on Cybertron, there is no doubt in my meta that Megatron will seek vengeance upon you for betraying his cause. Instead we shall help you fade into obscurity where his wrath cannot follow. The opsmecha on the shuttle behind you will serve as your escorts and protectors until you are safely hidden away. May Primus bless you in your new home.”

The families were quick to pack their few belongings onto the waiting interstellar shuttle and the final boarding was just as swift. The loading ramps and boarding stairs retracted into the non-sentient ship and the engines warmed up for their long flight. The take-off was a quiet affair due to the secrecy of the mission, but it was still given the decorum of a hero’s send-off. Yes, they had worked for the Decepticons, but it had not been their choice. All that they held dear and precious had been taken hostage by the ‘Cons and what right-metaed creator would have done less to ensure the safety of their creations.

_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_

After the ship was gone Jazz and his teamleaders were dismissed to get checked by Medical. Blaster tried to sidle up by Jazz to speak with him, but the saboteur was still upset. Jazz brushed off his friend’s attempts to communicate all the way into the Medbay and after, all the way to his quarters. Blaster was afraid that the other Polyhexian was going to slam the door closed in his face, but Jazz left the door open as he walked in, although he refused to face the host-mech. Blaster stepped in too, but found himself unable to speak when faced with the obvious rift between them.

_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_

Now that the mission was over it was time for Blackshot to wrap up some loose ends. He chose to start with the femmes.

He was reviewing the last of the datawork while he waited for ElitaOne to arrive and he knew there was a possibility the femme would not be pleased by the changes he was making to their original agreement. A whispering scritch noise came at his door and he rolled his optics. He triggered the door open to see the pink femme standing there with a smug grin, servo still raised where *he had been lightly scratching at the entryframe with *his claws.

“There’s an entry chime you know.” Blackshot said with resigned exasperation. ElitaOne was obviously going to be one of those agents.

“But it’s more fun this way.” Elita replied smoothly as *he sauntered in to take a seat. “So, am I wrong in presuming that you have summoned me to finalize the integration of my clade?”

Blackshot shifted uncomfortably. “Yes and no.”

The set of the femme’s shoulders became tense. “Oh?”

“Yes, and I ask you to hear me out in full before making any protests.” the Ops commander knew this negotiation depended on full disclosure, but knew also that such would not happen if the femme Queen went off half-way through.

Elita’s optics went cold and *his frame language became perfectly still. “I’m listening.”

Blackshot in-vented, nothing now but to take the plunge. “I have reviewed the original parameters of your request extensively and have been forced to conclude that integration as you have suggested it would be detrimental for both our units. Allowing you to come under my command, no matter how it was done, would immediately destroy the natural hierarchy your femme society has established. Striving to keep your chain of command despite integration would cause massive upheaval to my own as answerability and officer statuses would have to be completely revised.”

Elita’s optics flashed, but *he said nothing, as promised, while Black shot paused to pull a datapad from the stack on his desk. “There is, however, another solution that I think you might like better. When Megatron attempted to purge the planet of femme frames Optimus Prime recalled all femme Autobots, as well as any femme refugees we could find, to Iacon for safety. He had a separate division created to keep track of them and most of them work on loan with the other divisions or as chartered infiltration teams for my division. However, Megatron’s genocide had been nearly complete, as you well know. Praxus, as a neutral untouchable, still has a very healthy femme population, but the rest of Cybertron’s femmes now live here on base. The current roster lists fifty-three mecha. I have already proposed to the Prime to appoint you the official head of the Femme Division and such an appointment would guarantee you a place as one of his councilors. You would have better control over the placement and use of your mecha, and you would work as an adjutant division to my own. Your femmes are more information gatherers than assassins or saboteur as my group is and if you took over that portion of my division’s charter it would leave me more freedom to focus on the black ops stuff.”

His offer finished, Blackshot sat back to hear the femme pseudo-neutral’s reply. It was long in coming. ElitaOne took *his time to think over the adjustment of *his clade’s joining into the Autobots and found that it pleased *him better than the original, not that *he was going to let the Ops Commander know that just yet. The femme could not make such a radical decision unilaterally, and with that in mind, answered the other. “I will have to take this under serious consideration before I can give consent to this change to our negotiation and this for two reasons. Firstly, femme soldiers have always had a noted stance as a mobile clade that spans the army no matter their distance from one another and they might take offense to a stationary clade taking over their perceived territory. Secondly, the refugee femmes were granted automatic opportunity to join our clade upon entry into the city and all have declined our offer on the basis of desiring not to lose their originating clade’s culture. The refugees may be part of your Femme Division, but I guarantee that they are still operating as distinctly separate clades. The teams you mentioned are probably the micro-clades and the on-loan mecha the soldier clade. The leaders of all these groups will have to be consulted by my council to negotiate whether they will be ameniable to such a union.”

Blackshot’s optic ridge rose, he had never noticed such a separation within that division and it concerned him that he had never realized it. He postulated to himself that outside influence, for all that the Femme Division was technically military, would be most unwelcome and that there was really only one thing he, and the rest of Command, could do. “Can I leave this to you then, or will an outside arbitrator be necessary?”

Elita smiled faintly for a moment. “Yes sir, we can handle it alone, we always have.”

The ops commander nodded in reply and walked the femme to the door. Elita bid Blackshot a good orn and left, opening a dozen commlines to *his femmes on the way.

_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_

Jazz could not think, his mind was going in perpetual loops and he had no idea how to stop it. When he first realized what his best friend had been hiding from him, he had been mad, no worse than that, incensed. He had let that simmer all the way back to Iacon, and had planned to give the host-mech a piece of his meta once they were alone. He had felt betrayed, untrusted. Now, he did not know what he felt.

When Jazz heard Blaster’s testimony in the debriefing his anger was cooled so swiftly that he nearly got backlash from the switch from ire to sympathetic dismay. He had misjudged his friend, so badly so that he had nearly cost himself his best friend had he acted upon it earlier, and it left him feeling wretched all the way through the prerequisite post-mission medical exams.

Blaster had never once stopped trying to reach out to him, to breach the damage that Jazz himself had imposed on their relationship, and every attempt just made him feel worse.

Now they both stood in the dark just inside his door and Jazz could not bring himself to face his friend. He heard the host-mech fidgeting behind him and he still could not make himself turn around. Finally, Blaster seemed to give up because he sighed heavily and said, “Ah’m sorry for not tellin’ ya an’ Ah know ya probably need some time ta yaself, so Ah’m just gonna go an’ see ta mah littles. See ya ‘round, if ya forgive meh that is.”

Jazz heard the door open and knew this was his last shot. He spun around and yanked the other Polyhexian back into the room, locking the door closed as he went. He pulled his friend into a firm embrace and said, “Ah’m sorreh, Ah’m sorreh. It’s mah fault, not ya’s n’ ya got nothin’ ta blame yaself fo’. Ah judged ya wrong wit’out eva’ hearin’ ya side o’ tha story n’ Ah’m sorreh. Ah proved mahself ta be jus’ like those otha’s n’ Ah’m ashamed o’ mahself. Please, Blasta’, fo’give meh.”

Blaster did not hesitate for even a moment as he wrapped his arms around Jazz and whispered his forgiveness. The two friends stayed in the healing hug, ignoring even the fizzle-pop of Jazz’s door being overridden by four very cuddle-hungry cassettes. The giant cuddle pile that ensued would eventually be added to by a yellow minibot and a slightly reluctant noble.

_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_

It was nearly the end of the dark-cycle when Prowl returned to his quarters. The lights in his berth room were already on and soft classical Praxian music was playing in the background. He already knew who was there, but he had expected to have to hunt the other down to ensure for himself that his brother was truly whole and safe. Smokescreen was lounging on Prowl’s berth when the black and white reached the doorway and the sight made a tiny smile flicker to the head tactician’s face. Despite being older Smokescreen would always come to his younger brother and trine leader for comfort after a harsh battle. Second-guessing their own strategies was a trait they shared in common and having another there who would tell them it could not have happened any other way was a boon they craved.

This orn it would also serve the purpose of allowing Prowl to see with his own optics that Smokescreen had been completely patched and was on the mend. The diversionary tactician had been injured in the final firefight, but the field repairs had been deemed enough to hold him through the debrief. It had pained Prowl to see the half-patched wounds through that meeting, but had been unable to show his concern except through their trine-bond, which had been rife with emotion on both ends. Then, afterwards he had been delayed further with processing the many ramifications and revelations of the mission to Tarn, and it had been difficult to discard the thought-threads pertaining to his brother. Now though, he was free to carrier-hen his older trinemate until his worries were assuaged. 

To this end he crawled onto the berth next to Smokescreen and tucked himself into and around the other. The proximity was immediately soothing to them both and soon after they had both dropped into a healing recharge.


	21. Moving On

Chapter 21:  
When Chromia first found out that the slime-infested rust bucket of an Ops Commander had reneged on their deal *he had been two steps from going up top and putting a cannonblast through him. The consolation prize they had been offered as an alternative had not made *him any happier either. The Iacon clade had immediately convened their council to plan out how to phrase the new proposal in such a way as to be appealing to the Autobot Division they would be unwillingly commandeering.

It had taken a full dark-cycle of arguing back forth for them to realize that forward progress would only truly be possible after they actually knew what issues the topside clades would have with the merger. They had taken a few joors to catch some recharge and then Elita was off to deliver the meet-up invitations to the other clade leaders. Chromia would have gone with *him, however the White Queen knew *his second was still too riled to be of any use, and so put the dusky blue femme to work overseeing the rearrangement of the Council Chamber.

Chromia fussed and fumed as *he directed mecha to place this chair here and that pedestal there, and overall complain that *he was a fighter not a decorator! However, by the time the White Queen returned Chromia was winding down and resigned to the necessary evils of the war. Elita just smiled indulgently and grabbed the other for some mutual aid in cleansing before their guests arrived.

A bare half-joor later the entire Iacon clade was assembled to greet the topside leaders. The preparations for them had been difficult to complete as the Autobot femme leadership did not have a full council and even several same-station leaders. The soldier clade fortunately had a White and Red Queen, but there were two other Reds, two Punctums, and four Lances, each leading their own microclade. Elita restrained *his inner sigh at the helm-ache that was sure to ensue from the coming political scrap-storm.

_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_

Jazz rang Blackshot’s doorchime for entry. His mission was finished and it was time for his final debrief and reassignment. Jazz was sad about the latter, he knew wherever he was placed this time would probably be far away from all the friends he had made here and the saboteur would miss them. He was grateful that his commander had allowed him a brief reprieve to say his goodbyes over the dark-cycle, but it was going down bitterly in his tanks. Especially when he thought about Blaster. His best friend, and now he was going to have to abandon him like everyone else.

Jazz sighed, but refused to show his depression, straightening up with a false confidence as the door to the office opened. He saluted Blackshot and sat when requested, all with perfect ops poise. Blackshot saw through it anyway. “You can stop fretting, I’m not sending you away.”

The saboteur’s visor brightened. “Sir?”

“The mission to Tarn has made you and your team too visible, so I’m pulling you back from outgoing missions until the Decepticons’ attention moves elsewhere. You worked well with Bumblebee and Mirage so I am giving them to you permanently. However, that said, Mirage is going to be unavailable to you for a little while because of a critical mission that I desperately need his talents for. Blaster has chosen to remove himself entirely from the ops field and stay with Communications, not that I blame him since he is department head, however he has offered the full cooperation of his Division whenever we need it. Your new post is an unusual one. Tactical and Ops have never had a very friendly relationship and the departments often clash with one another. Tactical has difficulty calculating for our agents, especially since we simply cannot servo over our personnel files, and Ops is reluctant to allow sensitive information out where non-ops approved Mecha might potentially be able to access it. This is where you come in. You will work with Prowl directly as an advisor with the goal of improving communication between the departments. As the official liaison your clearance will be upgraded to a level just below my own so that you may act as a living repository for Tactical and access Ops classified information. Prowl most likely will not be pleased by this, but I already have Prime’s permission so there is nothing he can do about it.”

Jazz just sat stunned, he was working with Prowl, Prowl the stubborn, Prowl the rule-stickler, Prowl the unfun speechifyer who he had sworn to help. Well. Wasn’t that an unseen boon. He had felt guilty for not following through on his Prowl Plan, but the mission had taken precedence. Now, however, he could work from inside unimpeded. Jazz grinned the grin of an unholy prankster. “Sounds fun boss, when do I start?”

_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_

Well, Elita had been right, on every account. The topside femmes were very upset about the takeover. Furious was an understatement to express their ire and so far that and their fear were the only topics they would allow. They were distressed at the idea of losing their individuality and the only reason they had not accused the Iacon clade of subterfuge was the fact that Optimus Prime had delivered the orders to their current commander personally just before they left for the underground palace. It was creeping into the sixth joor of discussion and Chromia was relieved when the real underlying issues were finally addressed with the solemn resignation by all that the merger was not going to be avoidable.

The soldier clade’s White Queen was currently addressing the floor. A solid black femme with slips of cream highlighting with all the grace and silver tongued wit of the pit viper *he was named for. “As current commander of this clade I must protest the overshadowing that your clade will present when we merge. Our clade is small and even with the numbers of our eight allied subclades we will be as nothing but scattered crystal dust among you. And what of when the war is over? Will you still control our clades? What experience do you have to bring that would make you worthy to command our mobile clade and could you even comprehend the difference in culture that will be necessary to maintain such a wide-spread contingent?”

ElitaOne rose to answer *his counterpart on an even setting. “Queen Viper, it is not our intent to destroy what you are, but you speak the truth on several points. We are many and you are few. Ours is a stationary clade, yours is not. The war has changed so much of everything and I fear as you do that we will not come out the same as we once were. Only if we work together however, can any remnant of our culture be preserved. We of the Iacon clade do not wish to be soldiers forever, and it has already been decided by our council that we will step down and away from the soldier clade when peacetime comes.”

Viper nodded *his acceptance of that stipulation and Elita went on. “As for maintaining autonomy, such will largely not be possible as you have feared, however, it may be possible for you to retain cultural independence.”

“How could it be possible for us to have one but not the other when they go servo in servo?” Viper asked skeptically, *he had begun pacing in *his agitation and now stepped forward in subconscious physical challenge of the other White Queen.

Chromia stood and move to a position where *he could protect Elita, no upstart soldier was going to threaten one of *his femmes, especially not *his leader. ElitaOne motioned *his Red Queen back, this was no threat, merely a mech frightened by potential loss and the unknown. “You are not a White Queen, are you Viper? I can see it in your stance, you were once a Red, weren’t you.”

Viper flinched as if struck, but held *his ground in silence.

“I mean you no harm in my observation, but perhaps I can help you. As the Prime has mandated it, I am to stay the White Queen when we merge and my council is to take over as the leadership. This is what does not sit well with you the most, you resent losing power.” Elita said gently. “However, it does not have to be that way. Since the Iacon clade will be the primary component if the new Femme Division my council will need to head it to maintain our own culture, however, if we adopt the hierarchy of the Black Queens then additional seats on the council can be made for your leaders. This would also allow for promotion in the ranks without the worry of exclusion of non-Iaconians. Your clades would optimally hold individual positions, but answerable to my chain of command. I would also be most amenable to training up a new White Queen for the soldier class to lead you when we step down."

The black and cream femme stepped back to confer with *his allies. Their whispering was furiously fast and many arms waved in nonverbal expression before a verdict was reached. Viper turned around again to face the Iacon clade leaders. “Our clades would know what the details of their subdivisions' charters would be before we agree. The allied clades wish to add the stipulation that all immigrant femmes of the Iacon clade be given the choice to return to their original clades to bolster their numbers.”

Elita smiled. “The allied clades’ request is accepted, we have in fact had several members of our clade already request permission to rejoin their old brethren. As for details the Iacon clades has prepared a detailed brief for each of you to consider. We would not ask for your answers now as a decision made in haste is often regretted at leisure. The Prime expects our answer by this dark cycle so a joor before will be the deadline. Please take our good will as you depart and our wishes of wisdom in your decisions."

The assembled femmes arose, took the offered datapads and began to depart. Several of them already looked pleased by the pads' content.

_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_

Ever since Jazz had been revealed to be an ops agent the Comms Deck had been an awkward place to be for Blaster. Due to the secrecy in which the mission had been shrouded all of his subordinates thought that Jazz had been using him and subsequently became very protective over the Polyhexian host. The half muttered imprecations that permeated the Deck were getting worse by the joor and Blaster knew that if one more mech came to him with offers of a sympathetic shoulder to cry on he was going scream. It was sweet that they cared about him that much but the truth was far from what they perceived. Blaster was becoming concerned over possible retribution and quickly opened a private line to Blackshot.

-:-General Blackshot, sir, Ah need a moment of ya time if ya are available.-:-

-:-Of course, I always have time for a former agent. What's the matter?-:-

-:-Well sir, Ah think Ah'm going ta need ta do some damage control. Mah mechs seem ta have gotten tha impression that Ah was bein' pulled about by tha spark strings by Jazz an' they are nearly out for energon. Ah don't want ta break tha silence order on tha mission, but Ah can't see what else ta do. Do ya possibly have any suggestions?-:-

-:-Alright mech, no problem, here's what we'll do...-:-

_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_|_-*-_

As the dark cycle turned over the land a large mech moved slowly towards his quarters. There were many who would say that he was master of all he surveyed, lord of his people. He would say he was a humble servant and little more. His humble bearing and honorable metaset had swayed more than one mech to undying loyalty but he would acknowledge none of it. This dark cycle however, the mech's shoulders were bowed with the weight of his world. His rival was venturing deeper and deeper into forbidden realms and the great mech was desperate for ways to stem the slaughter the Matrix kept showing him in his dreams. Optimus prayed fervently that the addition of the hidden femmes would bring a new path to his visions, but feared that it was instead the beginning of the end.

The halls seemed to be more shadowed to his optics this dark-cycle, but he suspected it was only a reflection of his own black thoughts. Optimus often longed for the simpler orns of his youth and this orn was no exception. He found his meta continually straying to his once best friends who were now long lost. Dion and Ariel had been his closest companions and greatest confidants, but when he roused from stasis those long vorns ago they were no where to be found. Optimus had not even been permitted to search for them due to the Council’s insistence on following proper presentation procedures for the new Prime. It was later, after almost a full decacycles that he finally learned what happened to his friends. Dion had been saved by an emergency spark transplant to a new frame and now went by the designation of Ultra Magnus. Ariel, however, had never been found and, after a full vorn, been pronounced deceased.

Optimus shook his helm to clear it of the morbid thoughts and wearily typed in his passcode. The door to his suite slid open and he trudged into the darkness intent on simply getting to his berth for some rest. He was stopped in the doorway to his berthroom however, by a voice he never imagined he would hear again.

“Hello Orion.”


	22. He's a Mech Eater

Chapter 22:

"Hello Orion."

Optimus froze. That voice! He managed with difficulty to get past the vise around his vocalizer and gasped out. "Ariel?!"

The lights came up halfway to reveal a pink femme sitting comfortably on his berth. It was not Ariel. Optimus' spark sank in disappointment.

"Queen Elita. This nocturnal visit is highly inappropriate. Although I possess a firm open door policy for my soldiers that invitation is generally by appointment, except in emergencies, and most certainly does not extend to my berthroom. Please explain yourself." the now irritated Prime commanded.

The lithe figure on his berth uncurled slowly and sauntered over to stand before him. "The explanation is simple. You offered me a command position whilst knowing very little of who I am. I came tonight to rectify that."

Elita strutted over to the one wall decoration in the room and leaned in as if to study it closely. "And you had my designation right the first time Orion."

Optimus stared at the femme again, searching for a remnant of the spark he once held dear to validate the claim.

"Look me in the optic." He commanded.

Elita faced him and remained still as a statue while Optimus examined *him. The form before him was taller and bulkier than the slim little femme from his past. However, there was something about the optics that pulled Optimus to a time when war was a whisper on the horizon and dark cycles were filled with light-sparked conversation of a bright future.

In two strides he reached the femme and swept *him into a desperate embrace. "Ari." he breathed. "I thought we had lost you."

Elita snuggled into the hug, for just a moment shedding *his usual leaderly dignity and allowing *himself to just be.

"What happened to you?"

It was time for explanations. The White Queen extracted *himself and got reseated on the berth. "When Alpha Trion rebuilt you he also rebuilt Dion and I. However, our frames did not have the boost in healing that the Matrix afforded you and our onlining was delayed. By the time we were fully functional you had begun your challenge against the Council's corruption and Alpha Trion feared that if he were to return us to you that the Council would try to use us to control you. He hid us away and did not even tell us that the other was alive. Dion and I both knew you still functioned, but had no way of safely letting you know we survived. Not until now at least."

Optimus knelt before his friend and gently grasped *his servos. "Praise Primus that you have been given back to me. I have sorely missed you and your sage advice on many occasions since becoming Prime and I will be forever grateful if you would resume that old role of my dearest friend."

"For you my 'Rion, anything is too small a request to ignore and everything is what you deserve." Elita smiled at the big mech so openly relieved before *him.

Optimus for his part felt the weight that held him down not ten kliks earlier slide from his shoulders as though it had never been. He rose, settled beside his Ariel and felt the missing part of his spark click back into place.

They chatted together for nearly a joor, catching up on one another's functionings, before something occurred to Optimus. "Ari. If Alpha Trion did not tell you Dion was functioning, how did you know that he was?"

Elita smirked, chagrined. "In truth I only found out about him very recently. About a vorn ago I had to pass through the area over which he is stationed and happened to meet him in one of the few still functioning bars in the area. It was purely happenstance, as he was rounding up some of his errant soldiers, but I would know my mechs' spark signatures anywhere. We had a grand time that dark cycle, but I made him promise not to tell you. Megatron was in the middle of his anti-femme campaign and all femmes were in deep cover to avoid deactivation. I could not risk you seeking me openly." The pink femme looked up apologetically. "I do ask your forgiveness for that. I should have trusted your discretion better, but my advisors were upset enough with me over Dion knowing."

Optimus wrapped his massive arms around Elita. "There is nothing to forgive. You are a leader and leaders must sometimes make self-sacrificing decisions for the good of those who follow them. I have you back now. That is all that matters."

The White Queen sighed in happy relief and sank into the bliss of being complete again. The moment was short-lived though, as real-functioning reminded *him of *his other purpose for coming to see the Prime that dark-cycle. Elita pulled back and removed a datapad from *his subspace. "By the way Orion, I am officially accepting your offer to lead the Femme Division, however, in order to get the Autobot femmes to accept I had to make some major changes to the current infrastructure. This pad details those changes."

Optimus looked worried. "Putting you in charge was my decision, the femmes who will be under your command should not be allowed to stipulate terms of acceptance. They are soldiers and should know better..."

"Orion. Stop." Elita interrupted. "Don't get mad at them. Do you remember what I told you about femme clades when we were younger?"

"Yes?" Optimus was puzzled and unsure where this was going, however, he trusted that Elita had a point to *his question.

The femme leader smiled. "Well, you are most likely unaware of this, but your Femme Division is actually a clade. And when you ordered them to accept my leadership you essentially ordered them to merge their clade with mine."

Optimus' optics widened in horrified comprehension. "Oh Ariel, I am so sorry. I did not realize... I can retract the orders and make this right... Do not worry, I can fix this."

Elita quickly reached up and placed a shushing finger on the Prime's lips. "There is nothing to fix 'Rion. Our clades have worked out a mutually beneficial agreement and I am simply informing you of the successfully completed negotiations. Now, relax and tell me what reactions I should expect from the mecha of your base to my sudden presence as an authority."

The Prime sighed in relief, told the Matrix to stop laughing, and complied with his friend's request.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The mission had been finalized earlier that light-cycle and the exit window was set for the same orn's duskpoint. It was a rare solo mission for Mirage and being sent back to the region he had only barely just escaped was unnerving to him. The noble was finished with his normal preparations, but one thing, or rather, one mech, was missing.

Hound had not been seen on base since the rescue shuttles had docked in Iacon. Mirage was concerned that his friend had relapsed due to the femmes and was fearful that the scout blamed him. Mirage wanted to at least make sure they were okay with one another and say goodbye, however, at a joor to departure there was still no sign of Hound.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Jazz strode down the corridors in the direction of Tactical for his first orn as Ops Liaison. He was both excited, for he had plans, and apprehensive, the animosity between the two departments was legendary.

He rounded the last corner and shivered. The majority of the halls in the base were cheerfully painted and often used as unending bulletin boards for the general populace. This section however, was a stark, blank grey. It was devoid of personality and almost sterile in its atmosphere. Jazz knew it was deliberate, the entire area surrounding the Tactical Department was this way. Supposedly it was to remove distraction and promote dedication to the tasks with which they were entrusted. To the Polyhexian it was simply cold and harsh, and he could not help but wonder if it was a warning about the mech who lead it.

Jazz shook his helm, he had met Prowl, briefly though it was, and he was positive that the Praxian was a good spark. He knew there had to be a caring mech buried in there somewhere, he just had to find him. No more delays, Jazz thought, it's time to get this show on the road.

The tall doors opened before the black and white mech and he paused for a moment to take in his new domain. The first visible section of the department was the Proving Ground, a large open area largely dominated by a holographic battlefield generator. It was here that Iacon's tacticians tested their strategies, and when necessary, directed battles in real time. Behind that was the Think Tank, the rows of nearly arranged desks and stations for the majority of the lower ranked tacticians. They were set up in such a way that multi-processor tasks could be utilized with ease and information could be collated in the most efficient manner possible. Lining the walls of these two areas were the many offices of the senior tacticians and in the very back center was the office of the Master himself.

His path determined, Jazz waltzed forward like he owned the place. Of course, the underlings were quick to pick up that he was not one of them and shortly thereafter he began receiving dark looks and hate-filled glares. He grinned widely, which did not help at all, and continued threading his way to the back of the room.

In his office Prowl observed the monitors as the interloper from Ops sauntered through his Division. The Praxian was disappointed by what he saw. He knew that Jazz had potential, that much was obvious by the saboteur's good work in his last mission, however, the haughty swagger and arrogant smile told the true story. The Polyhexian had been corrupted by his leader's laxity and Prowl had no desire to see that meta-set infect his Division.

Jazz showed no change in character as he reached Prowl's door, but internally he was bracing himself. He could already see that he would have to overcome some serious prejudices just from the lower ranking staff and Jazz found himself worried that it was indicative of the opinions of the upper level tacticians. He reminded himself that Prowl was a good mech and rang the entry chime.

The portal slid open soundlessly and Jazz gracefully approached the regal looking Praxian. He snapped to attention, though his smirk never truly faded from his faceplates, and announced himself. "Major Jazz, Liaison from Special Operations, reportin' fo' duty, sir."

Prowl was slightly surprised, though he repressed it well, he had not expected the mech to follow proper military protocol and was almost pleased until he realized it was probably an Ops joke to pretend to be respectful. Prowl made no change in his outer demeanor, but in his meta he made a note to watch this arrogant mech closely. He answered the borrowed saboteur crisply. "Major, thank you for being puntual and reporting properly. Now, due to the ambiguous status of your position I would like to make some clarifications for you on how this shall work. We have prepared an office for you since we know that the large majority of your duties require secrecy and to promote the security of the information you hold we will leave the appropriate plans and strategies in your drop box for you to process alone. When you are finished with your adjustments it is considered proper in this Division to personally return the datawork to the originating tactician or theorist. Do you understand your duties, Major?"

Jazz cocked his helm like he was pondering it, but in truth he was counting down from a million. He could read between the lines of Prowl's speech and what he heard was 'stay out of our way while we do real work and if we need your input we'll let you know.' Jazz nearly sighed, it was really going to burst the other's bubble to know it was so not going to be working that way.

"Well, General, Ah'm afraid tha'a not gonna work. Mah 'nstructions 're ta activeleh work among ya tacticians ta keep 'em from havin' ta redo their work all'a tha time. If Ah work from an office it'll jus' be tha same as though ya were sendin' ya stuff ta Ops. Ah'd be completeleh ineffective." Jazz replied respectfully.

Prowl stiffened minutely and the tiniest of displeased frowns creased his brow. "Your effectiveness has already been calculated Lieutenant, and it will be optimum in the position I have prescribed. This is not up for negotiation and I am giving you these instructions as an order. Understood."

Jazz really did not want to have to go there, but if a heirarchy lubrication match was what the Praxian wanted... "Sorry ta sound impertinent sir, but Ah'm Ops, not Tactical. Mah commandin' officer is Blackshot n' onleh he c'n change mah orders."

"Your orders can be changed by any who outrank your commander, soldier, and given that I am the Second in Command of this army you will follow my orders or I will have you brigged for your insolence. Now get out of my office before I have you brigged anyway." Prowl growled angrily, in that almost emotionless manner he possessed of course.

Only Jazz could see the slight uptick in those brilliant white wings and the hardly perceptible deepening of that cute frown. No! Bad Jazz! No thoughts like that. Jazz composed his internal monologue from the sidetrack it had tried to take and gave Prowl a very exasperated sounding sigh. "They said ya would try this, didn' believe 'em til now. Ah was told tha' if'n ya tried ta outrank General Blackshot Ah was ta inform ya tha' mah orders come from Prime directleh n' no change was permitted without his permission."

Jazz was unaware that those door wings could rise quite that high. That "V" they shot into was rather impressive. And, oooh! Claws! Prowl was subtly digging a very nice set of retractable claws into the desk top. they were nicer than Jazz's and he really wished he was on equal pedding with the Praxian so he could ask who did the mod.

The complete break down of the other's impassive demeanor was what held the saboteur's attention the longest though. The barely restrained snarl, the bled-to-white flashing optics, the energon flush that cast a rosy glow across the elegantly arched cheek ridges, all of it. It was rather beautiful, and not in a sadistic sort of way for Jazz. And... Oh. The wings were Vibrating! It was barely there, just a teeny quiver in the atmosphere around their edges, but it was there. That was rather hot. Ah! Delete! Delete! Bad processor, it was not right to take advantage of a mech with no social skills and no friends. Jazz almost shook his helm and made a note to do a full defragmentation later to determine why he kept having thoughts like that. The Praxian was so not his type.

He had to get back on track and get this meeting over with. He knew just the button to push too. "Ya know General, Ah'm startin' ta wonder if ya really want ya strategies ta have maximum effectiveness n' if ya really want Iacon ta be defended ta tha best o' our abilities."

That got Prowl's instant, laser-like, intense focus. "How dare you..." The black and white drew himself up, but before he launched into the dressing down he so obviously desired to servo out he seemed to come to some other conclusion. Prowl smirked, the most minuscule of tiny evil smirks, but it was there. "Very well Major. We will do this you way. However, before you celebrate, you should be aware that any failure or reprisal that results from your insistence on this method will be revisited upon you as the sole responsible party. Are we clear?"

Jazz's processor stalled at the smirk and desperately tried to throw up thought threads about how dangerously sexy that smirk was. He deleted it before it was even fully formed and threw a return smirk at his new pseudo-superior. "Ya got it boss mech, sir. Permission ta be dismissed?"

Prowl resisted the urge to grind his denta and waved the impertinent, arrogant, aggravating mech towards the door. He could not wait for this orn to be over.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Almost over, almost done. This had been Blaster's mantra the whole orn. His mechs' protective behavior had begun to escalate and he was only too relieved when the time came to set the mess straight. The off-duty half of his subordinates had invited him to the commissary for dark-cycle energon and he had accepted knowing it would fit perfectly into his plans.

The south-side rec room was crowded with the post-light-cycle shifters as they all tried to scarf down their rations and catch up with friends before turning in. The loud chatter and friendly atmosphere washed over the host like a soothing balm as he waited in line to get to the dispensers.

He was mechlet-less this dark-cycle as his bitlets had been lured away by Bumblebee for a play date in the minibot wing of the base and the thought of it brought a smile to his faceplates. It had surprised the Polyhexian when he found out the short statured mechs had unanimously voted that his mechlings counted as technically belonging to their frame class, even if the measurement they were using was purely height based, but Blaster was far too grateful for the addition protectors to quibble over technicalities. The official vote had been carried out during the Tarn mission and his bitlets had enjoyed the full hospitality of their slightly larger brethren the entire time of his absence. Blaster had tried to thank the minis, but had been swiftly informed that it was not needed, that minibots took care of their own, even if that 'own' was only a very distant cousin-frame.

Blaster shook his helm free of the pleasant thoughts as it was his turn at the dispenser and then got his focus on for the upcoming damage control. His TIC waved to him from a table near to the north entrance and the host slowly waded through the crowd in that direction.

He was nearly to the table when he caught a glimpse of familiar black and white armor. Jazz waved to him, motioning towards the less full corridor before disappearing out of the entry way. Blaster cocked his helm as though confused, but followed with only a hold motion to his mechs to explain why he was leaving. He knew they would all follow as soon as he was out of sight, but that was the plan anyway.

Blaster walked down the hall until there were no more mecha about, then walked around the next corner to see Jazz waiting for him. The host gave the other a grin, but waited for the saboteur to open the conversation. Jazz just looked at his friend with complete patience and silence, it would not do to begin before the audience had caught up after all.

Several rather unstealthy mecha could be heard a moment later to be attempting to stealth up to the corner' sedge to eavesdrop. It was time then.

"Hey Blasta', Ah wanted ta thank ya fo' tha help ya gave meh tha las' few decacycles. Ya really came through fo' meh." Jazz would have rolled his optics at the redundancy of his statement, as though the host had not been through an entire ops celebration over the very mission he now alluded to.

Blaster held no compunctions over grinning insanely though, his mechs could not see his faceplates turned as he was. "Ya welcome mah main machine. Tho' Ah gotta ask, am Ah ever gonna find out just why Ah was pretending ta be ya lover?"

Now Jazz could smile, light up-tipping of his lipplates that it was. "Sorreh mah mech, but tha' info's likeleh ta be class'fied til Unicron come."

Blaster's grin soften to something a little more fond now that his official script was complete. "Well mech, it was good ta see ya again, Ah've missed having ya around all tha time."

Jazz could hear the commsmechs slink away and didn't bother to censor his response. "Ah missed ya too. Wit' mah team reassigned durin' mah stay wit' Tactical Ah've gotten kinda loneleh mahself."

"You should visit the Deck in ya off time then. 'S not as if tha mechs are gunnin' for ya energon anymore." was Blaster's hopeful reply.

Jazz reached out and gripped his best friend's shoulder. "Yeah, think Ah will. Tactical's gonna be eatin' most'a mah time, but ya mah closest friend, don' wanna lose ya."

They embraced one another like the brothers they wished they were then parted for their own separate functionings.


	23. Reflections

Chapter 23:

Frustration. A world turned upside-down. A whirl of black and white. Laughter where once silence reigned. Efficiency. Illogic. A battle won. A visored smirk. Fervent arguments lit by hologram glow. The best strategies produced in vorns. A cheeky wink. A lessening of animosity. It's disappearance not much later.

Time passed.

And Prowl pondered.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Nothing was the same anymore, and I found myself loath to admit that it was a good change. When Jazz first began working with the Tactical Department I was sure we were destined for ruin. I had also harbored quite the vengeful spark for the Ops-typical insubordination and egotistical deportment of the new liaison. In retrospect he ended up behaving like one of my tacticians and I like one of Ops’ agents.

_******4 Decacycles Previous*****_

_I contemplated throwing a datapad at the retreating saboteur to relieve my frustration, but that would be a waste of good office equipment, not to mention the trouble I would have to go through to replace the lost information. Too, the darkly devious thought that popped into my meta next had no little part in helping stay my servo. I wisely waited until the Polyhexian left my office before allowing the evil smile to bend the edges of my lipplates. It transmitted partially across my trinebond and I wasted the next few kliks shushing my needlessly concerned brother. So what if the mech was wary, for good reason, of the chaos that followed such mischievous emotions; it was not like I ever targetted him._

_My nervous brother placated, I began to plot. The ops liaison would be used to the typical S.O. reporting method, which was namely none at all. It would be Jazz’s first lesson that Tactical was not so lax. I would second that lesson with the standard requirement of returning every assignment back in triplicate. The last lesson… I chuckled lowly, it would certainly be the last filament that broke the chronosteed’s back and drove the interloper back to his own kind._

_I stood from my desk and crossed to the unobtrusively placed door in my right wall. It slid away at the proximity of my spark signature. Therein lay two dozen Optimus-sized filing cabinets arranged on two levels. Each cabinet had twelve drawers, each drawer contained one thousand data crystals, and each crystal held five hundred tactical plans._

_This archive of stratagem contained those plans that had been shelved due to lack of information and those that required certain events, mostly specific deactivations, to occur prior to potential implementation. It would take a diligent mech almost two centivorns to process them all, and that was if the mech forewent recharge and refueling._

_The truly funny part of this was the fact that this was only the archive for the top level of classified plans, there were four other equally full storage rooms of descending levels of secrecy. I rubbed my servos together gleefully, Jazz would be so inundated he would never have a chance to interact, and therefore corrupt, the tacticians in my Department. It was perfect._

_*****Present Orn*****_

I should never have bothered. It backfired so spectacularly that I now wonder why my battlecomputer did not forewarn me. Most likely it was due to the sheer illogic that seems to govern that mech's functioning and make him do the opposite if whatever I expect from him. I still ran a full diagnostic just in case.

Despite my best efforts to deter him Jazz still managed to insert himself into every aspect of my department. He spends the early joors of his orn's meandering through the junior tacticians' desks tweaking information threads whenever and wherever he feels the need. The rest if the light cycle he camps out by the Proving Ground to play Unicron's advocate for those who would test their theories against him. Then for two joors in the evening Jazz uses his office to process datawork and avail himself to the senior tacticians for proofing of top-secret strategies.

What troubles me most is how useful the Major is. The 'random integers' that represent opsmecha, operations, and the like were always presented in the preplanning phase, saving us orns of rewrites as we no longer had to revamp already completed plans. His station in Tactical also saved us the time that would have been spent waiting for couriers to rush plans back and forth between Ops and Tactical. This swifter, more accurate proving process has already saved many sparks.

I am reluctant to recant my previous opinion, but this time I believe I shall have to.

Jazz has become...

Valuable.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

It has been four and a half decacycles since I began working in this place and I must say it has been quite the experience. Prowl truly hates me right now and I admit to returning the favor. The only good thing I can think about him right now is that at least he has proved he has emotions, even if their expression has been juvenile.

_*****Four Decacycles Previous*****_

_I was finishing up the last placement of my momentos to make the sterile office more homey when someone rang the chime. I almost wished I had never answered that chime._

_On the other side of my door was the young theoretician I had observed, once-upon-a-vent-grate, helping Prowl with his ornly duties. The poor mechling was laden down with a large box, the top bulging open from the number of datacrystals stuffed inside. I could smell the strong odor of Scheming layered all over that box, but I would not terminate the messenger in my effort to thwart the designer. I played at ignorance to any knowledge of the underservoed ploy against my presence, and helped the young mech to place the box next to my desk. I chatted with him a moment and discovered that his designation was Skids, along with a number of useful tips for how to navigate in the prejudiced world of Tactical. He left with the impression that I was a genial mech, and therefore missed the sparkeater’s glare that I directed at the offending container on my floor. I am fairly sure that even Unicron would have fled upon witnessing my countenance after I opened the first crystal’s contents._

_Well played Prowl, but I could do one better._

_My job description clearly indicated that I was to supervise current and ongoing strategy development only. This being known, I immediately began tagging all the plans with a date older that six decacycles, which was all of them, to be returned to the originator of the initial stratagem. This retagging went even faster when I realized that each crystal was assigned to the plans of a single tactician. I finished in about a joor and a half, then I forayed out into the main area to begin the difficult task of getting the tacticians to trust me._

_After the end of the work-orn I returned to my office and waited for the last Tactical mech to leave. I knew that Prowl would be in for some time yet, but I could be quiet enough to avoid his notice._

_I swiftly delivered all of the datacrystals to their proper recipients along with a note that Prowl had requested a review of all past discarded strategy and could they please see to updating them so I could proof the plans properly._

_I snickered on my way out that orn, and again for the next six orn._

_It surprised me that it took seven orn of dusty plans for the other tacticians to cry enough, but the wait was worth hearing Prowl get chewed out by his top six lieutenants. Prowl, of course, demanded an immediate meeting with me to discuss my hindrance of the proper functioning of his department. It was even funnier to deflate his ire with my hyper-specific job description than it had been to derail his blockade._

_I left him fuming in his office and went back to my real work._

_*****Present Orn*****_

Prowl stopped trying to actively get in my way after that, but he was still far stricter on my proposals over any others. I often found myself comparing this job to some of my tougher and more complicated infiltrations. It was supremely difficult to over the prejudices held by the tacticians of Prowl's Department.

And it was Prowl's Department. For all his cold, unfeeling, rule-adhering, unfriendly nature, his mechs loved him. It made no sense, Prowl pushed everyone away just by being, why would they care for him? Part of the answer was revealed as I wiggled deeper into the tacticians' trust.  
Very nearly every tactician, theoretician, and statistician in Tactical had been servo-picked and trained by Prowl. Furthermore, Prowl had the persistent habit of taking personal responsibility for every failure, regardless of who was truly culpable. His personnel respected him so much for this that they would do anything to keep him from standing for their shame.

I knew there had to be more than this to their care, but no mech would talk about it. In the long run though, it did not truly matter. The tacticians were still the most excellent resource for insight into Prowl's psyche that I had. It was important for me to know who would suit Prowl best when I began my campaign to set him up with some friends.

A campaign that would begin shortly.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

A foul odor wafted through the air to curdle in my olfactory sensors. The scent had gradually been increasing over the past four orns and I was hard pressed to tolerate it anymore. If not for the mech's nearly impeccable behavior I would have sworn it was a revenge prank being played by Jazz. However, the reports that the Scouts' Corp had been submitting for petroskunk trapping over the past decacycle and a half shot a rather large hole in that theory.

Right now however, the smell was so unbearable that I could no longer concentrate on my work. It was time for a change of location.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

I never saw him coming. Or rather, I saw, but did not know how to comprehend it. I knew my brother to be a normal mech with normal emotions, but Prowl almost always hid them behind the SIC facade. It was due to this that Prowl's more normal moments always seemed to catch me by surprise. This time it was almost humorous in what happened.

Prowl had walked in, a large crate in his servo, and emptied my desk into it. I could only splutter as I watched, and wonder what offense I had committed that would cause Prowl to evict me. I knew that my brother frowned upon my extracurricular activities, but as long as I kept the gambling low profile Prowl tended not to bother me about it.

The next thing I registered was Prowl pushing me out with a quickly muttered, "My office stinks."

Then the door slammed closed in my faceplates.

Dazed, I walked down to Medical and settled into my rarely-used office in the psychology sub-department. Halfway through unpacking I realized that the existence of this second office was likely the logical reason that caused my brother to steal my Tactical office. It settled my sensors to have figured out my brother's thought processes and determining that it was not personal settled my spark. I hated fighting with Prowl, even when I knew it was for his own good.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

The smell was still getting worse. The scouts had trapped over a dozen petroskunks in the vents of Tactical as still there were more. The odor had become so pungent that it could be detected as soon as the doors to the department were opened. I wanted to believe the theory the scouts had presented for the mechanimals' abundance, but my battlecomputer had already determined the true culprit. The scouts proposed that the presence of one of the larger commissaries above Tactical was attracting the petroskunks, but I knew that the large population could only have sprung up so quickly if outside influence had been involved. Influence like a certain incorrigible Polyhexian, who played innocent, but was undoubtably behind the prank.

I could not legally punish Jazz when the evidence to his complicity was so thin. However, I was not above taking more underservoed methods of retribution.

The look on Jazz’s faceplates when I made the announcement that Tactical would temporarily be moving in with Special Operations was priceless and only topped by Blackshot when Prime informed him of the decision.

It was interesting to see just how fast the petroskunks disappeared after that.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

I was back at square one. Prowl was just not interested in cooperating at all. I was in deep scrap for causing the invasion of Ops territory, but I had still been confident that I could arrange a meeting since Prowl was out of his element. Unfortunately, Blackshot had me on petroskunk duty with the trainee opsmecha as punishment for my involvement and I never had any time. It was truly dissparkening, especially since I already had an excuse to bring Perceptor in to Ops that would just happen to coincide with Prowl’s one teeny tiny mid-orn break.

I was never going to get another chance at such a meeting now that we were back in Tactical. I am going to have to rework my plan… again.


	24. Tested by Flame

Chapter 24:

It was a bright and beautiful orn and ElitaOne was on *his way to the ornly staff meeting. *He was enjoying the luxury of being able to stroll through the surface levels without contestation, but as *he had so often recently, *he found himself thinking that the corridors were truly stark in appearance. *The artists of *his clan had declared it to be repressive and immediately volunteered to improve this sterile canvas. Elita knew that this place would never compare to the old age splendor of the deeper realm, but agreed that there was room for improvement. *He intended to bring up this topic in the staff meeting this orn as a form of morale improvement, but had also secretly planned for a private meeting with Orion should this idea be treated as all *his others had.

Elita had been forewarned by Orion that some of his officers, while impeccable in most moral and military areas, had a few hang-over prejudices from the old era. Namely, the proper place of femmes in society and that mechs with Sigma- and AllSpark-given gifts were dangerous code-glitches who should be monitored for public safety. These few mecha had promised the Prime to not let these personal opinions affect their behavior as members of the Autobot Army. However, they were still only mecha, and therefore subject to the occasional failing as all imperfect beings are.

As it turned out this promised apparently only covered Gifted mecha, and their bias against femmes allowed a free, if veiled, reign. Orion had been prepared to give them a talking to, but Elita had discussed him, citing that it would look like favoritism on the part of the Prime. Orion had reluctantly relented.

The primary culprits were the Security Director and the Chief of Procurement. Elita knew if *he were to argue against one of them alone *he would win his point, but so far had been unable to defeat them when try argued in tandem. Something they never failed to do. Elita was tempted to bring in a few of *his council members to even the playing field, but was hesitant due to their likely reactions. Chromia at least would kick *his aft for not telling them sooner.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Mirage ducked under a large heating conduit and plastered himself to the wall behind it. He was trying to avoid the heat sensing drones that patrolled the area and so far he had been successful. Previous success however, had not made him careless as it might have others. The noble had been in Tarn for nearly twelve decacycles and he was still no closer to discovering the secret behind the rapid troop movements.

All Mirage had to show for his efforts was a complete map of every secret passage and unnoticed entry into Shockwave's tower. As useful as that would be to Ops, it did not qualify as equal to his true objective. He had gotten few leads and most of those had not panned out. So, Mirage had taken to eavesdropping in the open barracks where the grunts were housed.

Recently, that had paid off. Whatever Shockwave was working on had finally reached the gossipy vocalizers of the average Decepticon underling. Mentionings of rapid transit times, magic portals, and dark science had filtered through and Mirage absorbed it all. It worried him immensely, as such a combination of rumors could mean any number of terrible outcomes for the Autobots. The latest rumor spoke of trial runs occurring in the middle of the smelting pools.

Mirage headed that direction post-haste, but not so quickly that he abandoned his caution. He noticed that the number of patrols increased as he got closer and he found himself concerned that he would be unable to arrive at his destination undetected, phase-disruptive or not.

He was going to do his best though, the Autobots were depending on him.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Hound got off the transport at the Altihex Base and was immediately swept up into a pair of massive arms. The scout chuckled at having been caught and reached up to wrap his own arms around his captor's neck.

"I've missed you." Hound murmured.

"And I have been lost without you." the other replied.

The kiss they shared was one of sweet longing and joyful reunion. When they pulled back Hound looked lovingly into the optics of his prebonded and whispered. "I think I found him."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The meeting had been a disaster, just like all the others. Every time Elita had tried to offer some help or advice on a problem *he had been swiftly shut down with pseudo-civil rejection from the dynamic duo. They never stooped to insults or inflammatory language, but they made sure that *his suggestions were always rejected as foolish. Prime had become so angry that he called the meeting early, something that the two-some had immediately blamed on the femme commander. Elita was not without allies though, Blackshot, Prowl, and Wheeljack had disputed the jerks' claims and Perceptor had made not a few multisyllabic assertions of a pointed nature against the two's honor. It helped assuage the femme's hurt spark, but did no good in the arena of verbal battle against the prejudiced officers. Elita moped back in to *his division hoping that *he might make it safely to *his quarters where *he could cry unhindered.

Unfortunately, Chromia saw.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Blaster felt a buzz in the back of his helm. The feeling had been persistent over the last three orn, but even knowing what it meant, he had been unable to get away long enough to answer it. A rather large portion of encrypted Decepticon comm chatter had been recorded by his counterparts near the Sonic Canyon. That base's commsmecha had been unable to decipher the transmission and, recognizing the potential importance of it, had forwarded it to Iacon. Blaster's team had worked on it none stop ever since and made no better helm way than the Canyon team.

Finally, he decided that enough was enough and ordered his mecha to take a break. Fresh processors would give them a better shot at cracking the code and give Blaster a chance to answer that persistent summons.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Chromia stood in the entry to the Firing Range and just admired the view. A saucy looking red plated mech was tearing holes through every target with perfect accuracy and the sight set the femme's spark aflutter to see such a kindred spark.

The femme council had recently held an emergency meeting concerning the treatment of their White Queen and decided that the lack of respect must be addressed swiftly. Their Queen would never attend another High Command meeting alone, but to suddenly have random unknown femmes intruding upon the meeting would only bring comments of weakness. Therefore, the plan was to insert themselves into the presence of the major Command players and 'befriend' them. Then, when the femmes were accepted as part of the mosaic that was Iacon Base's population, their presence would be a welcome thing at the Command meetings.

They had divided up the potentially friendly officers and gone out to conquer, at least in a sense. Chromia's assigned mech was Ironhide, and *he was increasingly glad of it. The Prime's bodyguard would at least be fun to hang out with, and if Chromia was especially lucky, become a true friend.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Prowl resituated his desk from organized to painfully straight. He was not nervous. Not at all, and Smokescreen could just shut up on the other side of their bond because his teasing was just uncalled for.

The reason for his not-nervousness was the offer he was about to make to a certain Polyhexian due to meet with him in a klik. Jazz had been so very helpful during his stay with Tactical, despite the ocaisional prank that just could not be repressed by the free-sparked mech. Even those were light compared to the normal behavior of opsmecha and Prowl found he could tolerate this pseudo-controlled morale boosting given the asset Jazz now represented.

The door chime sounded and Prowl stiffened into perfect attention. He answered it and bade Jazz to enter. The saboteur appeared to be completely at ease being summoned to his superior's office without explanation, but considering the way Ops was run it was likely that Jazz socialized with his higher ups often. Still, the Polyhexian afforded Prowl that uncharacteristic respect of standing at attention until permitted to sit, and the Praxian appreciated what it represented. Or at least what he hoped it meant.

His logic centers and battlecomputer still could not come to a solid conclusion about the saboteur's behavior. On the one servo, it could be an elaborate practical joke to make fun of Tactical, and by extension Prowl, by derisively imitating the strict conduct they followed. Or it could be genuine regard on Jazz's part and a true attempt at mending the rift between what should be the two closest Departments.

To help settle the conflict in his processor, Prowl was going to extend a minute amount of trust and see what it garnered him. If Jazz was playing a game there would be new jokes about rigid tacticians within the decaorn, if the saboteur was serious then the work relationship between them would improve and the effectiveness of Prime's 'Left' and 'Right Servos' would increase exponentially.

With all of this in meta, Prowl began the meeting. "When you first entered my Department twelve point four decacycles ago I was sure it would lead to no good. I have never been more pleased, or shocked, to have been proven wrong."

Jazz relaxed into the smallest sprawl possible without offending Prowl's greater sense of propriety. " 'm glad ta hear tha' General."

Prowl restrained a grimace at the other's smug tone and reminded himself of the objective. "Yes, I would like to apologize for my behavior and attitude these past decacycles, as I was expecting you to behave like all your brethren do. Their utter lack of respect for authority and regulations has perhaps made me bitter. You however, while showing some of the hallmarks of an opsmech, have proven yourself intelligent enough to rise above your peers. Therefore, along with my apology I would like to offer my support of your difficult position."

There was silence fora moment as Jazz digested those backward insults, then he began to chuckle. "Mech, while Ah kno'whacha tryin' ta say, n' Ah 'preciate it, really, ya really should lay off tha rust coatin'. 'S not ya style."

Prowl's faceplates darkened minutely, but Jazz held up a servo. "Truce accepted sir. Just tryin' ta tell ya ta play ta ya strengths 's all. Ya ah straight-forward mech, n' ya do better when ya stick ta tha'. Ya don' need ta grease meh up when ya talk ta meh, Ah like it better when ya quotin' facts at meh."

The tiniest of grumpy frowns played over Prowl's lipplates. He did not like being spoken to so frankly, but it was typical of Jazz's ilk. "Terms accepted. You are dismissed."

Jazz stood with a jaunty salute and sauntered out of the office.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Mirage was genuinely scared at this moment. He had seen what Shockwave had created and it was more terrible than previously imagined. The breakthroughs the mono-opticked mech had made had so many potentially horrible possibilities and Mirage had to get the information back to the Autobots post-haste.

There was only one problem. Mirage could not leave Tarn. Soundwave had shown up the orn before and was making a full inspection of the territory for Megatron. Even the noble's phase disruptor would be unable to hide him if the telepath got too close. Mirage was going to wait until the dark-cycle when the 'Con TIC went into recharge and then hightail it out as fast as his hovers could carry him.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Blaster crept silently through the rubble of the badlands; his matte black stealth paint made him nothing more than a mobile shadow in the gloom. His older two symbionts were similarly decked out and roaming on the outskirts of their host's sensors to provide extra security.

There was always a chance that this rendezvous was a trap, it was a risk they took every time his Atari called for a faceplate to faceplate meeting. If Blaster's counterpart had been compromised in any way this would be the best method by which to eliminate the femmes' entire line of inside information. Even though he was not an official part of the Femme Division he would always be the Iacon Clade's Anchor.

Blaster neared the designated meeting point and paused to take in the area. It was a large outcropping of cybertronium and tadenite-iron alloy. It's natural low level electromagnetic properties would reflect any mech signals and provide perfect camouflage for this tryst. Unfortunately, if this was a trap it would serve the same purpose for the trappers.

When physical observation yielded no signs of anything the host stretched out with his telepathy to search out what could not be seen. There was only one meta in the area besides his own mechlings and it was a familiar one. Still not shedding caution, Blaster slipped into the sharp columns to the center where his contact waited. The other mech was equally decked out in stealth paint and if not for the knowledge Blaster had of who the mech was, the foreign one would be nigh unidentifiable.

"Good dark-cycle Broadcast. How's 'Con life been treatin' ya?" Blaster called softly.

The other mech did not even flinch at the surprise greeting and merely inclined his helm. "Tempo, was wondering if you would show. Information of utmost importance has been acquired."

"Yeah, Ah could tell with how'ya were burning up mah processor with ya requests." was the grimaced reply.

Broadcast had the grace to look sheepish but yet, still unremorseful. "Information, is time-sensitive. Time was running out. Apologies, hurting you was not intended."

Blaster held out his arm and popped his data port cover. "Well, give meh ya cable and let's get this done then."

Broadcast approached and linked up with his Anchor. The download was swift and when Blaster opened it he found it well organized as was typical of his Atari. Just before the transfer was finished Broadcast drew Blaster into a firm hug. "For what I cannot stop, I am sorry."

And with that cryptic statement, he disconnected and disappeared like mist.

Blaster stood for a long time, shocked at the uncharacteristic display and wondered what was so terrible that his Atari felt the need to apologize so intimately.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Shortly after Blaster returned to the Communication Deck the reports began to pour in. Massive numbers of troops had suddenly appeared at Iacon's border and were moving rapidly towards the city. The host hit the base alarm and rushed to his post to begin sending out the alerts to all the officers and unit commanders.

It would be a close thing if Iacon survived.


	25. The Beginning of the End

Chapter 25:

“Hey Churn, haveya heard anything from our troops yet?”

“Oh yeah, Bitmap is in Comms, Old One-Optic left him in charge so our glorious meta-defected commander can take his place in the army under Lord Megatron. Bits says the campaign is goin’ great and our troops just slaughtered the scout guards on the edge of Iacon. According to him, Lord Megatron bridged over from Kaon to personally lead the attack himself!”

“Those portals ol’ Shockey came up with have really come in handy, huh. With them we’ll probably have the war won and be sitting pretty in Iacon before the vorn is out!”

The two border guards chuckled nastily over the downfall of the Autobots, never realizing that their entire conversation was being overheard by an invisible watcher.

Mirage had been on his way out of the territory only to find his exit point guarded by two Decepticons. The nearest other egress was half an orn’s travel to the south and by then Soundwave would be awake again. After about a joor of waiting the two soldier’s had begun to converse about an ongoing battle and it was then that Mirage realized his information would arrive too late.

Casting about for what to do, the noble was suddenly glad that his superior had given him operational discretion.

*ooo*ooo*ooo*

Prowl stared at the holographic battlefield in growing dismay. The Autobots were losing and there was nothing he could do about it. His on site tacticians were relaying orders as fast as they could, but as soon as the troops managed to push back the ‘Cons, reinforcements would appear. Where all the Decepticons were coming from no one could tell. It was like they were just appearing out of thin atmosphere. The long range sensors detected no spark signatures incoming and the opsmecha had reported neither cloaked transports nor secret passages.

Something that surprised the Praxian was that Jazz had eschewed going out on the field with the rest of his department, instead staying by Prowl’s side and even offering to help filter the data in hopes of finding the solution to win this battle. They worked together seamlessly, where one faltered the other brought strength and between them they managed to hold the line. However, despite all their efforts, if something did not go in their favor soon, the Autobots would be defeated.

*ooo*ooo*ooo*

Mirage watched as another group of Decepticons stepped through the ground bridge. The glowing green portal was his best chance at getting back into Autobot territory with any hope of being timely enough to make a difference. Unfortunately, Soundwave was meching the controls.

Mirage was debating the danger levels if trying to sneak past the telepath and hope for the best when one of Soundwave's flying symbiotes entered the room. The tiny red and white gyrofalcon landed on the larger mech's shoulder and chirped something at *his host. Mirage froze. The little spies were known to be at nearly as adept at telepathy as the big spy and it was entirely possible that the small femme was reporting evidence of the noble's presence. Why else would the host have them out actively patrolling in a Decepticon stronghold.

Soundwave turned from the console and began to move.

Mirage stopped all venting and tried to make his meta a blank non-entity.

When Soundwave passed by the noble's hiding place and left the chamber entirely he could not help but tremble in relief. Mirage dashed forward to the control console to make sure the coordinates were still set to Iacon, no need to end up in Kaon, and then disappeared through the ground bridge to home.

*ooo*ooo*ooo*

Jazz was staring at the holographic battlefield with single-metaed intent when the crackle of a highly encrypted local comm nearly made him jump out of his seat in fright. He examined the ident ping sitting in his internal comm suite carefully, as it claimed to be that of one of their on-mission operatives. The Polyhexian would not put it past the Decepticons to try to cripple Autobot communication waves via viral transmission, but the only way they could have acquired this particular comm code would be if they had captured its owner. There was however, another almost infinitesimally small possibility.

Jazz leaned over and quietly excused himself to Prowl, knowing that the Praxian would be able to read between the lines of "Something's come up." The saboteur then made his way to the Communications Deck as fast as he could without drawing attention. The Deck was a study in organized chaos and Jazz had to wait for a moment for a space to open through which he could pass. His target was Blaster, who stood at the central console like a ship’s captain at the helm. The host was plugged in at about twenty different points of the console and was truly proving that he was the Master of the Comms.

Jazz sincerely hoped his friend had a few processor threads to spare because the magnitude of the security threat potentially in the saboteur’s comm suite would require the aid of the very best. He slipped up to the red and yellow mech’s side and laid two digits on his elbow. A warm servo covered his for a nanoklik and Jazz knew he had been acknowledged.

The saboteur heard the crackling ping twice more before Blaster was able to shunt enough of his lines to focus on Jazz. “Yeah mech, yah got somethin’ for meh?”

Jazz nodded. “Ah gotta potent’lly compr’mised ops commline n’ Ah need ya ta back meh up while Ah open it.”

Blaster silently offered him a data cable and they synced up. They positioned all the necessary firewalls and then Jazz cautiously opened the flagged commline. The frantic voice that came through nearly blew out their audials.

-:- Mirage to Jazz, Mirage to Jazz, answer your slagging comm blast you! -:-

*ooo*ooo*ooo*

Thundercall pulled off from his dogfight with Starscream as soon as he got the call. Spitfire and Solarscar formed up by his wings and another trine distracted the Decepticon Second. The Autobot trine flew over Iacon base collecting several more heavy-weight flyers and continued on. A soft prayer for Primus to see them safely returned was whispered over the comms.

*ooo*ooo*ooo*

Soundwave was not a mech for premonitions, but he found himself in a constant state of unease since Laserbeak had come to warn him of a breach in their perimeter. It did not ease meta either that his Lord Megatron had insisted upon taking ninety percent of the able chassised mechs from the Tarn garrison, leaving Soundwave with naught but a skeleton for defense. He had attempted to convince his master that leaving his rear so poorly guarded was unwise, but Lord Megatron was not to be persuaded. Indeed, if not for a timely interruption by Starscream, Soundwave would have likely been beaten for his temerity. It was never more apparent that silent loyalty was what the gunmech truly appreciated.

A faint whisper of sound on the edge of his audial range made Soundwave stop his introspection. A klik more and he had identified it. The host immediately dashed towards the command center, internally calling for his symbionts to return to him.

*ooo*ooo*ooo*

Bay doors opened silently to the harsh howl of the passing atmosphere. Silver orbs slid forward to the gaping hole, innocuous in appearance as they slid out, not so much when they contacted the ground below.

Wide plumes of flaming plasma overtook the terrain, igniting natural and unnatural volatile substances making the inferno rise higher and spread swifter.

Thundercall surveyed the damage his bombers had wrought and declared it satisfactory. Nothing had survived. He watched as the nearby guns of the Tarn garrison swung around to target his flyers and gave the call for tactical retreat. They had accomplished their goal.

The smelting pits of Tarn were no more. Instead there lay a giant pool of molten metals, and somewhere in the middle were the once functional ground bridges. There would be no more reinforcements for the Decepticons.

*ooo*ooo*ooo*

With the Decepticons primary method of transportation in ruins it was not long before Megatron called a hasty retreat and the Autobots were left to pick up the pieces of their city. The internal departments of Iacon base quickly sounded off as all clear and began the process of post-battle clean-up. Tactical was always one of the last to dismiss, but Jazz noted that Prowl had disappeared early on. He had dutifully aided Smokescreen in collecting all the reports that Prowl would have to sign off on and a datastick of the battle’s information for tactical review. Only, Prowl had not returned. Jazz was confused, as he knew Prowl to be a conscientious mech when it came to post-battle regs, so this sudden departure from the norm was unsettling. He carefully locked up all of Prowl’s work in the mech’s desk and went on the hunt. It had happened a few times in the past that the stress of battle became too much for some mechs and they had subsequently attempted to take their own sparks in effort to find peace. Jazz was almost positive Prowl would not try such a thing, but as much of a loner as the Praxian was, it was an entirely plausible possibility.

A quick ping to the base’s location systems indicated that Prowl was in Medical. Jazz’s spark jumped into his throat and he broke into a run. Prowl had no business being in the hospital ward, unless the unthinkable had happened and someone was lucky enough to find the Praxian before the deed could be completed. The Polyhexian skidded around the last corner and composed himself before peeking into the medical bay. No Prowl.

The berths were filled with groaning, injured mecha, medics bustling not quite frantically between them. The effort to save the still-functioning would likely continue until the following orn and later, and already Jazz could see where aid had failed. A small side room was partially full with the deactivated frames of those lost under the scalpel and he knew they were not likely to be moved for a while as the mausoleum crew was quite busy with cleaning up the mess on the battlefield. It was to Jazz’s relief that Prowl was not among that number, but nor was he a guest of one of the mediberths. A cursory look around indicated that the Praxian was not there at all, but before Jazz could decide on his next move one of the medics spotted him. He knew he was in the way, but he had a general to find. Luckily for him, the medic was Fixit.

The older mech gently took Jazz’s elbow and steered him towards the exit. Just as they reached the door the medic addressed what he perceived Jazz’s concern to be. “Jazz, I know you’re worried, but we can’t have mechs cluttering up the Bay while we’re trying to save sparks. General Prowl has already been through to pay his respects and comfort the deactivating, so there is no need for you to repeat the gesture right now. Later, when everyone is repaired, you can return and cheer them up.”

Jazz stood staring for several kliks at the closed doors to the Medical Wing. Prowl had been paying respects? Comforting mecha? That was… really out of character.

The saboteur was confused, he had memorized Prowl’s patterns and nowhere in those were habits of visiting the injured post-battle. Now, it was true that there had not been any major battles since Jazz had come to Iacon, and it was entirely possible that the Tactical Commander’s routine for those was different than that being exhibited now. However, what puzzled the most was the fact that it was entirely outside of Jazz’s previously established baselines on Prowl’s behavior and meta-set.

It was making his head hurt trying to meld the two, so he put it out of his meta and repinged the base for Prowl’s new location. It came back as ‘outside’, which was less than helpful. Jazz was almost ready to give up and just wait for the Praxian to return on his own, but his stubborn streak insisted he at least set optics on Prowl. The best place to do that would be the roof.

*ooo*ooo*ooo*

The dark-cycle was well upon city when Jazz stepped out of the roof access. Iacon was mostly silent since the denizens were likely still in shock over the attack and there were very few lights on, with the exception of the outskirts where the clean-up crews still toiled. The Polyhexian looked up at the sky and felt the peace of the outstretched canopy of stars sweep over him. Why did that tranquility have to stay in the heavens, why could the Cybertronians not have some of that here on their planet?

A soft noise to his left interrupted Jazz’s contemplation and he immediately plastered himself to the access point’s wall. It was natural instinct for him to assume it was Decepticons until proven otherwise so it was completely natural that all of his stealth mods came abruptly online and his visor blinked over to nightvision with a side of black dampener to mask its glow. Jazz’s brilliant white paint faded out to matte black as he noiselessly slid towards the corner and the remainder of the roof. He considered slipping up to the top of the access for the highground, but it would leave him too exposed for comfort. Jazz strained to hear any sound on the other side of the wall and heard the noise again. It sounded like… whimpering?

Now complete sure it was not Decepticons, and supremely curious as to who was crying on the open roof Jazz risked a gander around the corner. It was Prowl! The regal Praxian was kneeling, helm almost touching the roof as he bent low, and wings quivering high on his back as he rocked slightly. The tiny whimpers were accompanied by almost silent keens interspersed with distraught declaration of Prowl’s responsibility for all the casualties of the battle. The mech was grieving. Jazz’s meta was at a stand-still, this level of emotional expression was nearly unbelievable of the stoic Praxian. Jazz knew Prowl needed a safe emotional outlet, but he did not realize it was this bad.

The Polyhexian looked beyond the Praxian, and nearly gave himself away at what he saw. All around the SIC, etched in precise flowing script, were battle dates followed by the success rate and the number of deaths the battle had caused. Most of the roof was covered in the memorial to the fallen and Jazz felt a small tear slip down his own cheek at the number of lost sparks. This was depressing, and it was unhealthy for Prowl to dwell on it. Jazz would be doing something about this.


	26. Epilogue

Epilogue:

A dark cloud hung over Prowl. It was bad enough that he felt completely responsible for the travesty that was the battle, but now his private sanctuary had been invaded. He knew who it had been thanks to his doorwings’ sensors, and it was his own fault for getting so wrapped up in his mourning that he did not register the intrusion until later. Prowl was unsure how to procede however. It had been three orns since that battle and Jazz had yet to show signs of meaning to use the information. It was unnerving, not knowing, and Prowl was not a mech to just wait around for the other ped to drop.  
*.*.*.*.*.*.*  
Jazz was hiding in his office.

It had become crystal clear to the Polyhexian that he had severely misjudged his superior and he felt compelled to make it right. He had seen Prowl as one who only saw others in terms of skills and assets, and he had wanted to change that to something more personable. He now felt guilty for not looking beyond the surface. This was a beautiful, tender, empathetic spark forced to serve a function that destroyed its innocence and caused it to form an unfeeling shell just to cope. Prowl did not need someone to change him, no, he needed a protector, someone who would shoulder his burdens with him and soothe him when it became too much. The Praxian needed someone who would understand him and be open to what he was forced to do.

This Jazz could provided.

*:*:*:*:*:*:*:*

Mirage laid on the medberth glad for the pain blockers Ratchet had provided for him. It had been due to his own foolishness that he had been injured. Mirage had been in such a panic trying to get through to Special Operations that he had accidentally stumbled into a firefight between a pinned Autobot unit and their Decepticon opponents. The noble had still been cloaked so no one actively targeted him, however, that did not stop three stray shots from winging him.

A whisper of noise to his right told him the bay doors had opened, and he assumed it was a doctor until a familiar voice spoke up at his side.

“Hey Raj.”

Mirage looked up and smiled at his friend. Then he hesitated and the smile dropped away at the sight of a hulking black mech standing behind Hound. The scout noticed Mirage pulling back into his noble façade and realized its source. He turned to the large truckformer and introduce him. “Oh, Mirage, this is my prebonded, Trailbreaker. I’ve told him all about you and when we heard you were injured he insisted on coming with me.”

Mirage withdrew completely and Hound frowned. “Raj? You okay?”

The inaccessible mask replied in a frigid voice. “I appreciate the sentiment, however, I am quite tired at this juncture and would prefer to be alone.”

Hound knew his friend was upset, but for the functioning of him he could not figure out why. Trailbreaker, however, was not so blind and he sent a tight beam comm to his love. -:- Hound. Prior to this moment, did you ever give your noble any hints that you were already claimed? -:-

-:- Well, no… -:-

-:- Mmhm, and since meeting him, have you made any overtures of courtship? -:-

-:- Of course I did, I told you that already! -:-

-:- Mmhm, yes you told me, but because you never told him your noble now believes he has been two-timed. -:-

Hound stood staring at Mirage, who had closed his optics and begun to feign sleep, and was speechless. He gave Trailbreaker an imploring look for help, but the black mech shook his helm. -:- No Hound, you made this mess, you have to set it right. -:-

The scout drooped as his lover ruffled his helm and left the medbay. Then he turned and glared at his supine friend. Hound knew that he had messed up, but getting through to the aloof noble would not be easy. Mirage was the type of mech who, once decided upon a subject, could often never be swayed from that opinion.

So Hound took the direct approach. “Alright Raj, Breaker’s gone. You can fess up now.”

A single cold optic slid open. “My designation is Mirage and I would thank you to use it properly. As for your impertinent query, I have nothing to say to you.”

Hound ignored the icy vitriol and pulled up a stool. “That’s fine. You can just listen.”

Mirage closed his optic with a tiny huff. He was furious with the scout for leading him on and nothing the other could say would fix it.

The green mech just smiled genially and began his narrative. “When two mechs prepare to bond…”

“Hound.” The noble interrupted, optics flashing open in outraged disgust. “I have no desire to hear about your escapades with your prebonded! I am trying to rest!”

The scout folded his arms sternly. “That is not what this is about, and if you’d just listen you might hear something important.”

Mirage rolled his optics and turned toward the wall.

“Now, as I was saying. When two mechs prepare to bond it is required by law that they first visit a medic for a spark scan. Most mecha think that this scan is merely a formality to check for anomalies and general spark health. They would be wrong. The scan is performed because of the Large Spark Theorem. You see some mecha unfurl with larger than average sparks. This is because the frame they will mature into or the mods or gifts they will carry will have a higher energy requirement. Unfortunately, because of this inherently higher power level, this causes a problem when they want to bond. The power coefficient between two bonding sparks has only a small margin for imbalance and anything higher will deactivate one or both parties. If two mecha with such an imbalance still wish to bond they must find a third mech to balance the equation.”

Hound sighed wearily. “Trailbreaker has a large spark. We have loved one another for centuries, but we cannot bond. We never thought that we could love anymech else the way we love each other, so we resigned ourselves to being merely prebondeds forever. Then you came along, and I knew, you were the one.”

Mirage rolled back over to face Hound, his whole countenance wide with shock, but Hound was not yet finished. “Almost from the moment I met you I fell in love with you, and I knew that if Trailbreaker were to meet you he would too. We want to court you, to see if the three of us will work out. And I know this isn’t exactly the most romantic way to ask, but I couldn’t just leave you here thinkin’ I’d led you on.”

Hound was grinning at this point, but Mirage was robbed of words. “I-I don’t know. I need to think. I don’t know.”

Mirage was near tears from the stress, and the worry that Hound would think he was rejecting him. The green scout, however, understood and gently picked up the noble’s servo to kiss the digits. “Take your time Raj. We’ll still be here when you get out of Medical.”

Then he left.

Mirage’s digits would tingle from the kiss for quite some time after.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Well, the ped had dropped… but nowhere in Prowl’s calculations had this ever been a part of it.

There was a box on his desk.

And there were crystals in the box.

The datapad that came with the box told of who sent the package. Prowl could here the black and white Polyhexian’s very tone in the broken glyphs of the letter.

_~Hey mech, Ah wanted ta ‘pologize fo’ messin’ up ya sol’tude. Howeva, seein’ ya like tha’ made meh realize somethin’. Ah wasn’ givin’ ya ah fair shake. Ah was treatin’ ya jus’ like everyone else does. Ah’ve always prided mahself on bein’ able ta be friends wit’ any mech, yet here Ah was treatin’ ya poorleh fo’ bein’ diff’rent. Ah’m sorreh fo’ tha’. Ta make it up ta ya Ah did some research n’ found ah Praxian friendship ritual tha’ll hopefully convey mah sincerity._

_\- The Jazzmeister ~_

Prowl looked back into the box, and blushed. The appropriate crystals were included: a rare solid, hexagonal Iaconian crystal, ‘ta give tha relationship ah solid base’ read the caption; a wild Tarnian crystal with its harsh angles and odd curves, ‘because Ah can’t be tamed’; and an elegant Praxian crystal whose angles and curves had been gentled into perfect symmetry, ‘because even untameable Ah still need ah good frame ta support meh.’ The last small note at the bottom completed the ensemble. ‘You give meh support as Ah reach out ta tha stars n’ Ah’ll be someone ta keep ya company when ya loneleh, someone ta hold ya up when ya hurtin’ n’ Ah’ll be ya someone crazy ta always make ya laugh when ya’re down. Friends?’

The whole presentation was perfect. The only problem was that this was not an overture for friendship, but an ancient Praxian bonding request.

Prowl’s helm hurt.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Smokescreen sauntered into the office to give his brother the ornly reports, but stopped short when he realized that Prowl was not moving. The black and white was staring blankly at a small box and clutching a datapad in his servo desperately. Smokescreen plucked the datapad from Prowl’s grasp and quickly read over it. Then he looked in the box. And back at the datapad. Then he laughed. A good side-splitting laugh at his brother’s expense before he fixed this mess.

Smokescreen put the datapad down and rapped his knuckles sharply against Prowl’s chevron shield. The black and white startled and noticed his brother for the first time.

“Smokescreen?” Prowl asked weakly, making a vague motion towards the offending object.

Smokescreen sighed. “He doesn’t mean it that way and it looks like he really is trying. My advice is to accept it for the sentiment he is trying to show and not the one this really signifies.”

Prowl just whined softly, which earned him a raised optic ridge and a huff. “I know, I know, its wreaking havoc with your code. Go take a nap and let your logic processors sort this out, I can handle Tactical for a while without you.”

Prowl nodded and rose to leave. He hesitated at the door. “You are sure he means it?”

Smokescreen smiled softly. “Yeah, I believe he does.”  
\- End Epilogue –


End file.
